Behind Closed Doors
by winter machine
Summary: "He was just here!" That's what Addison said about Mark's presence the night of their affair. But what if it wasn't Mark who was there? What if someone else showed up instead, and it changed everything? ADDEK, purposefully vague summary that will make sense soon, and much more coming if you like it!
1. Thursday, 8:27 pm

**HI. Okay, guys, I know it's ridiculous _even for me_ to start another story when I'm knee deep in stories. BUT this has been planned for a while, because it's the debut of my digital age remote posting OMG which means, if it works, that I can start more frequent updates now that I'm tighter on time. Btw, you can blame Birdieq for this story, because I used it as blackmail to get her to update Life Ain't Always Beautiful. This is an Addek story, so feel free to bounce and read one of my other-ship stories if you're in a winter mood but Addek isn't your cup of hot buttered rum. **

**OH And I _promise_ I'll be updating my WIPs very soon - probably even faster if you like this one. (Hey, Addison's not the only manipulative one.) I've rambled enough - hope you'll read and enjoy.**

* * *

 _Thursday, 8:27 p.m._

* * *

Mark's not here yet.

Derek's not here either … but that doesn't surprise her.

Mark's absence does.

Derek is the one who lives here, but Mark has come over every one of the past three nights and found Addison alone each time.

Plenty of nights before that, but the past three nights stand out. He knocked on the door of the brownstone on each of those nights, always between eight and eight fifteen, never using the key they gave him years ago.

On Monday, he said _your husband takes you for granted._

And on Tuesday, he said _you deserve to be happy._

And on Wednesday – which was yesterday – he said _I think I'm falling in love with you._

No, he asked it, like a question: _what would you say if I told you I think I'm falling in love with you?_

She didn't answer.

And now it's Thursday. Now it's tonight.

Now ... it's already twenty minutes past the time Mark usually knocks.

She sits in one of Derek's old shirts and sweatpants she's had since med school, not sure whether it's for comfort or so that if anything happens she'll have it as an excuse, _I was relaxing, I was wearing old clothes, I never led him on._

... it's ridiculous and in a way it makes her feel even more culpable, actually, even if they haven't actually done anything, so much so that she considers changing.

He's not coming, it seems.

Did she scare him off, the other night? When she looked into his sad eyes and whispered _oh, no, Mark, we can't,_ and he dropped a fraternal kiss on the top of her head and said _you deserve better, Addie, you really do._

They haven't done anything.

This should make her feel better but it actually makes her feel a little nauseated that she even has to say it to herself. That she even has to think it. They haven't done anything they hadn't done for years and years, with Derek too before he checked out, flopped on the couch in the den watching the news, or Letterman, or games on the weekends. She used to love watching the Yankees settled between the two men, Derek's hand resting on her thigh or one of his arms flung around her; Mark would yell at the screen and Derek would mutter under his breath and between them she would just watch, enjoying the double commentary.

They got so worked up.

That all seems like a long time ago now. Derek hasn't been home before eleven any night in the last two weeks; he slept at the hospital Monday night and last night. Tuesday night he came in after she was asleep; she didn't turn out the bedside light until past midnight and she pretended to be asleep when he padded into the bedroom, still hearing Mark's voice in her head from earlier that evening.

 _You deserve to be happy._

That night, Mark brought over a pizza like they were still twenty-five and she felt all that grease curdling in her stomach. Her knees were drawn up to her chest; she blamed the heavy food for her discomfort. She was waiting for him to pass by the bed but he surprised her by leaning over her curled body and brushing some of her hair away from her face. She couldn't pretend with him this close so she blinked her eyes open and he whispered, _it's okay, go back to sleep, Addie._

Derek was halfway out the door when she got downstairs the next morning, keys jangling, impatient; when she galloped to his side he pressed a quick kiss to her cheek before slamming the door shut behind him.

And then this afternoon she stopped by her husband's office, and he was engrossed in something, and he glanced up quickly, she gave a little wave, he nodded, and that was that.

 _Your husband takes you for granted._

She glances at the time. Mark isn't coming over, it seems. He's reliable.

Consistent.

 _Persistent._

So she did scare him off, then, with her hesitation, her fears. It's better this way, isn't it? He's been so good to her, checking on her, helping her, _noticing_ her … but he's still her husband's best friend. And she's a married woman.

She's a married woman sitting alone on the couch with her knees drawn into her chest, sipping a glass of wine the price of which she knows enough now to be embarrassed about, she's scrubbed off every bit of professionalism from her day along with her makeup. Loose, drab clothes, bare face. Maybe she's more naked this way. Maybe she needs more protection.

Bargaining with herself, she wonders if he's still going to show up. He's never come this late, but maybe there was an issue with one of his patients. She'll just change her clothes … she'll change and then maybe he'll get there.

She's actually halfway up the stairs when she finally hears a rustling at the front door.

Finally.

She doesn't know if she's relieved or scared.

 _I_ _did this,_ she thinks, _I summoned you here._ She glances at the time, feeling powerful.

8:46.

He made her wait, but she won't let herself think, worry, or fear. Not now.

Bracing herself, she flings open the door without looking through the peephole.

"Mark, what took you so-"

But it's not Mark.

" _Don't say another word_ ," an unfamiliar voice growls but she couldn't even if she wanted to. She's too shocked to do anything but squeak with alarm as the door is forced open and leather-clad hands shove her back through the foyer, a second pair of hands slamming the front door shut ... sealing them all inside the brownstone together.

* * *

 _to be continued_

* * *

 _ **I have no idea if the formatting works on my phone but I'm gonna cross my fingers. What do you think? Are you on this ride with me? I have a lot planned and ready to go if you are ...**_


	2. Thursday, 8:47 pm

**A/N: thank you so much for the reviews and encouragement on the first chapter! This story will have shorter chapters from my usua craziness... but that just means I can update more often. Expect at least one mornchapter this week.**

* * *

 _Thursday_ , _8_ : _47_ _p_. _m_.

* * *

 _It happens so fast._

That's what everyone says, that's what always gets said, but it's true.

There's a sickening swoop in her stomach, pops of light behind her eyes and then it's just a tumult of sound and fear and her own ragged breathing as unfamiliar hands push her through the hall of her own home.

 _Stay calm. Oh god, stay calm._

She sees the intruders only for one nightmare flash of a moment. Ski masks. It's too dim to make out their eyes.

 _Who are you? What do you want?_

Because then it's dark, the hallway disappearing as the lights flicker out. She knows this house to its bones and can tell the moment when they cross into the kitchen. Mercifully, they release her.

Then one of them is flashing a narrow pinlight; he pulls the heavy shades that lead out to the back garden. No one can see in anyway; it's private. They always liked that about the brownstone.

When they bought it, it seemed like a positive. Now it makes her feel terribly, terrifyingly alone.

If only she _were_ alone.

Low light warms the kitchen and she wishes she didn't have to see their looming figures, dressed all in black, feet from her but she can still feel their hands.

They haven't said anything else to her and they're not touching her anymore and for a moment she feels - not safe but _something_ like when you're a little kid and you think if you close your eyes no one can see you.

But they turn to her.

She takes an automatic step back, feeling the marble of the island hitting her flesh; it's cold through the thin fabric of her shirt.

Her gaze darts around the room, eyeing the door to the garden, the windows. The shorter one laughs a little.

It's a chilling sound. Especially when he shows her what he's holding.

She's innocent, when it comes to weapons; she knows this. Until the change in the city's security four years ago she'd never even seen a weapon like this up close. In her travels, yes ... but not in her city. And certainly not directed at her.

He's not even pointing it at her but somehow that's more frightening - like they just know she understands what they might be capable of.

 _Who are you? What do you want?_

But the words still don't come.

The shorter one takes another step towards her and she has nowhere to back up, nothing to do but shrink up against the wall - the edge of a picture frame scrapes her shoulder, it will be the watercolor of Sankaty she fell in love with and Derek bought it from the artist right on the beach.

All she can do is stand there and wait, heart thumping her rib cage, sweat starting to gather between her breasts.

"Are you alone?"

She doesn't recognize his voice. That's her first thought.

"Don't even think about lying," the taller one orders.

She wants to answer but her mouth isn't working. It's like those dreams where you try to scream but no sound comes out.

 _Maybe it's a dream. It isn't real. I'll wake up on the couch._

"Well?"

But she doesn't wake up.

The taller one launches towards her and she flinches, pressing herself against the wall.

"No!' The other one grabs him. "No marks."

 _No marks._

 _Mark, where are you?_

A sudden thought chills her. What if Mark isn't here because they did something to him … stopped him from coming?

"Hey!"

She turns at the barked word. His voice is calm and cold.

"This isn't the boards. It's a very simple question. Either someone else is here, or they're not. Either you start off this relationship with honesty and we all stay nice and friendly ... or you don't."

She shudders, hoping they won't notice, and then she finds her voice.

Her voice quivers, and it's quiet, but it finally comes out. "Yes ... I'm alone."

The taller one nods. And then he's moving closer and she squeezes her eyes shut, _wake up wake up_ , when his hands grasp her shoulders, but all he does is push her down until she's sitting on the kitchen floor. With her back against the wall she's trapped but with the house holding her up she also feels supported.

"Don't move," he says.

Armed the way they are, dressed the way they are, they're serious. They're ... she has no idea what they are, except that they must want money.

"The safe is upstairs," she volunteers, voice trembling.

"Oh yeah? A safe?" The taller one turns to the other; she can hear the sneer in his voice even if she can't see his expression. "Did you hear that? The safe is upstairs." He turns back to Addison. "Thanks, sweetheart, we'll keep that in mind."

Her heart is thumping against her rib cage. They're not interested in the safe? Part of her thinks she could change their minds if they knew what was in it – another part is afraid of what they'll do to her if she pushes it.

The light in the kitchen is low but she feels the air change when they're near her. She smells something ... maybe the scent of her own fear, sharp in the air. They must know she's afraid. They must know what she's thinking.

She needs to figure out what's going on.

But then there's a loud knock at the front door.

It startles her so much that her head bangs against the wall; she doesn't even register the pain before a thick leather-clad arm is at her neck, threatening to cut off her air.

His jacket smells like rain.

She can't move.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

Now the other one is in her face and she can't stop her breath from coming in short, obvious pants of terror.

"What are you trying to pull?"

"Nothing!" she gasps desperately; he's loosened his hold enough for her to talk and she's embarrassingly grateful.

"Who's at the damn door?"

"I don't know!"

Another knock, this time louder.

The arm at her throat tightens. "Start talking."

"I didn't do anything! I've been sitting right – "

"Shut up," he says coolly.

She does. She doesn't exactly have bargaining power.

She also didn't realize how much she liked sitting alone on the floor until she was dragged up off of it, and she doesn't like how closely he's holding her.

Not at all.

"Addison!"

It's a muffled yell through the door, but it's audible.

The shorter one grabs a rough handful of her hair. "Who is that?" He demands.

"It's my – it's our friend, he was supposed to come over – "

"Mark," one of them says.

She freezes. "You know – "

Then she remembers that she said his name as she opened the door.

"Okay," the shorter one says calmly. "It's fine. She's not here, so her little friend will leave. The lights are out and it's nice and quiet."

He pulls on the fistful of hair he's holding – not particularly hard, just enough to make her feel helpless, as she assumes it's intended. "It's _quiet_ , you got that?"

She nods.

 _You're so easy to read, Addison._ Mark said that once.

Is it too much to hope that he'll be able to read her fear and confusion through the door?

 _I'm in trouble, Mark. Call the police. I'm in trouble. Please. Call the police._

Silently, over and over, she begs him.

"Addison!" Mark is banging on the door now. "Are you in there?"

He expected her to be there. He expected to have the conversation she's been delaying.

"Very touching," he shorter one sneers. "One word and we kill you, then we kill him next."

She doesn't say a word.

"Does he have a key?"

She freezes at the question.

There's no time to lie because the intruders recognize the pause immediately; she hasn't even gathered her breath before the shorter one has pushed her against the wall. Hard.

"We've been so nice to you." It's the taller one, the one with the rougher voice. "And you don't bother to tell us important details?"

"I'm sorry," she whispers, "he never uses his key. He's never used it once, in six years. I swear."

It's sort of true.

One of them nods to the other.

A signal. A signal?

Are they going to –

"No-" The whimper escapes before she can stop herself.

The black-clad man in front of her claps a gloved hand over her mouth, fingers squeezing her jaw a little harder than necessary. His eyes are ice cold, their color a threat.

She hears Mark's voice again through the front door. "Addison, what the hell? Look, I'm sorry I'm late, I can explain. Can you just let me in?"

He's not leaving.

 _Do you know I need help? Is that why?_

She has no time to hope because she can feel the tension gathering in the kitchen. Whoever they are, she believes they'll kill Mark.

With every ounce of strength she has, she finds her voice.

"Look, he's going to worry if I don't answer the door. He was supposed to come over. He ... he knows I'm here."

"He can worry," the taller one says coolly, "all he wants. Out there. He comes in ... he dies."

She forces herself to keep breathing. The shorter one is still holding her against the wall with one hand on her shoulder, fingers biting into her flesh. He leans in closely enough for unwelcome warm breath to hit her face, his voice silky and almost amused.

"Better hope he doesn't use that key, huh?"

* * *

 _to be continued. Still with me? Thoughts? Feed the beast._


	3. Thursday, 9:08 pm

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews and interest in the story. Truly, I meant to update way sooner. The good news? Chapter 4 is very close, so let me know you're still with me here and I will get it up ASAP.**

* * *

 _Thursday, 9:08 p.m._

* * *

She's never going to be able to smell leather again.

Not after this.

Her back is pressed against the wall, shoulder blades sore from the rough shove, and her eyes are squeezed shut so she doesn't have to look into _his_ eyes. But his hand is still pressed over her mouth, which means that every quick anxious breath through her nose floods her senses.

 _I used to love the scent of good leather._

But if leather is the last thing she smells before Mark dies … before he dies because of her ….

She hears the cool, sarcastic voice: _He comes in, he dies._

She shudders.

 _Don't use your key, Mark, don't use your key._

And then the knocking stops.

The sound of her name stops.

He's gone.

Mark left.

Addison exhales, body flooded with relief. Slowly, she opens her eyes, getting used to seeing again, fireworks around the edges of her vision, trying not to focus on the cold eyes so close to her face.

He releases her jaw and she works it around a bit before she tries to speak.

"See? No key."

"You're not really in a position to gloat, are you?" It's the shorter, sarcastic one.

 _What are your names?_

 _Who are you?_

 _What the hell do you want?_

Then they're both too close for her liking, and she leans back against the wall wishing she could shrink right through it.

"Who else has a key?"

For a moment she stops breathing.

"Answer the question," the shorter one says, sounding almost bored.

"The, um, the housekeeper," she whispers, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

"Just one housekeeper, princess? Just one key?"

"I … she has an extra, if there's … if she needs to give it to someone else …"

"Okay, so here's how it's going to go. Stop it," he tells her, sounding disgusted – presumably because she can feel tears filling her eyes thinking of Rosa humming on her way up the steps to the brownstone.

She was always so cheerful in the mornings.

"Nice and easy," he tells her, his tone almost soothing. "You're going to tell the housekeeper you don't need her tomorrow. I know," he says before she can respond, "you've never washed a dish in your life. But you'll do it. And as for the spare key … you'd just better hope she hasn't given it out to anyone who's planning to come poking around." He pauses. "You got it?"

She nods jerkily.

"See? Not so hard." The taller one points to the corner of the kitchen where she was sitting earlier. "Get back on the floor."

If they mean to punish her … it's not working. Distance from the two of them is exactly what she wants.

She complies quickly, drawing her knees into her chest once she's seated, creating the most compact form of herself she can.

Because _she_ is all she has right now.

…

Time drips along; she hears the heaving of the old grandfather clock in the parlor.

It gongs on the hour, and on the half hour, different sounds for each. Derek never liked it, but he let her keep it. She didn't care for the noisiness either, but it was her favorite great uncle's and he left it to her.

She thinks about the comforting scent of pipe smoke and the Barbour jacket he wore in the country; he used to hold her on his knee.

It's irrelevant. It's … ridiculous but she clings to the memory for a moment of being small and safe.

Because every moment waiting for them to … _do_ something is making her heart thump with terror.

They're waiting, or that's what she's gleaned from their body language. They must be waiting for _something_ but she has no idea what. She can't hear their conversation.

She's grateful not to be ... restrained, even if it's also slightly chilling. Clearly, they don't feel they have anything to fear from her.

She's as tied up by their threats as she would be by ropes.

Except … they're still not doing anything.

They're talking, behind the kitchen island fifteen feet from her. There's a sturdy butcher block table a meter or so from her left foot, the door to the powder room in reaching distance from her right.

It occurs to her that she's not sure she's ever spent this much time in their kitchen.

When she redecorated the last time, deciding between Wolf and La Cornue, leaving glossy photographs on the hall table so she could compare one high-end fixture to another, she asked Derek if he had an opinion and he chuckled. "You're never going to use it," he reminded her. "Will you even _see_ it?"

She remembers feeling offended, at the time.

He wasn't wrong, and from her vantage point on the floor she can't make out the expensive range she finally chose - the priciest, not like Derek would mind or notice, but it still somehow felt like rebellion. Which she liked.

Her head is resting in her hands now. Some primal part of her thinks exposing the vulnerable back of her neck is unwise, but she's also aware they could hurt her at any time and she'd be powerless to stop them.

She might as well be – not comfortable, but in some position to hide her despair, if not mute it.

…

The grandfather clock chimes ten times, the loudest thing in the room, drowning out her pounding heartbeat.

Ten chimes. Ten o'clock.

"You want some water?"

She looks up at his words and shakes her head mutely.

They'd probably poison it.

"Suit yourself."

They move above her through her kitchen, seeming comfortable, while she sits on the floor with her arms around her knees.

She can tell they're murmuring to each other again but the syllables just rise and fall like water; she can't discern any individual words.

One of them vanishes for a time, and then returns. She returns her head to her knees, a childish desire to block out their presence.

 _If I can't see you, you can't see me._

Something brushes her shoulder and she jumps. When she opens her eyes the shorter one kneels down in front of her.

"Hey. Relax. We didn't kill your boyfriend, did we?"

He says it like she should be grateful, but her mouth dries at the word _boyfriend_.

They can't … no, he's just being crass, trying to get a reaction.

Her breath speeds up as he reaches behind him for something, but all he does is hold out a plastic bottle of water.

"Drink," he orders her quietly.

She reaches out a trembling hand and he pushes the bottle into it. She's glad it's not a glass because she's not sure she could hold it steady enough to keep it from shattering on the floor.

She's trying to unscrew the plastic cap but her fingers aren't cooperating. Finally he takes the bottle from her with an annoyed grunt and opens it for her.

The water feels cold and soothing on her parched throat.

He's staring at her and she's not going to engage except her lips don't obey, the form words that force their way out of her shaking lips: "What do you want?"

"I want you to keep your mouth shut unless we ask you a question."

Chastened, she drops her head onto her knees again.

He pats her shoulder with a companionable air that makes her shudder, and then the shudder turns into full-on shaking when he picks up her left hand. She forces herself to be still, not to yank her hand away from him and risk angering him.

She's frozen in fear anyway, not sure she could move her hand if she tried.

When they're not touching her ... it's so much easier to fool herself into thinking she's safe.

His grip on her hand isn't tight, it's almost _friendly_ , as his leather-clad fingers touch the stone on her engagement ring.

 _Aren't you worried about wearing a ring like that in public?_ That's what her mother-in-law asked, though she wasn't her mother-in-law yet. She had a judgmental look on her face when she took in the diamond engagement ring. Derek just slung an arm around her shoulders and grinned at her. _If anyone bothers her, I'll knock 'em out,_ he said, and kissed her.

He's still touching her ring, the feel of the leather on her skin making her nauseated.

"Someone has good taste in jewelry," he observes, and her stomach clenches.

"Take them," she whispers. "They're worth a … they're worth …"

"Thanks," he says sarcastically, "but I think I'll pass."

 _If you don't want money, then what the hell do you want?_

She still has no idea.

But her blood runs even colder when she hears his next words.

"Where _is_ your husband tonight, doc?"

* * *

 _To be continued, faster this time, I promise! Please review and let me know what you think, and that you're ready for chapter 4. (Or that you need some fluff to get over this ... tomorrow is fluffy Friday, after all.)_


	4. Thursday, 10:03 pm

**A/N: Love your reviews, love your predictions, thoughts, and guesses, and love all of you. You've earned another chapter ASAP, so here goes.**

* * *

 _Thursday, 10:03 p.m._

* * *

Her heart thumps. They don't know where Derek is, which means … she's not sure what it means.

But it must mean something.

"He's working," she whispers.

"At this hour?"

She doesn't respond.

"When do you expect him? Or _do_ you expect him?"

"I … don't. Not tonight, I mean. He's planning to sleep at the hospital."

"Why? _Don't_ try my patience."

"He has… a patient …"

"What kind of patient needs care at this time of night?"

 _An emergency_ , that's what she should have said, but now it's too late and she doesn't want to risk their lingering threats about being truthful.

The taller one is casually flicking through her phone, which he swaps for her blackberry. That one is password protected; it's hospital issued.

"Password?"

"I can't."

"Excuse me?"

"There's patient information on there." She tries to keep her voice from shaking.

"Your devotion to HIPAA is admirable," he drawls. "Stupid … but admirable."

With a flick of his wrist the pistol on his belt is aimed at her head.

She cowers against the wall instinctually.

 _Don't kill me like this, don't make Derek find me like this._

"Think you can make a HIPAA exception, doc, or you want to call a lawyer first?"

He's so close she can smell the burnished metal of the gun.

"1-0-0-8-9-4," she whispers.

One of them murmurs something to the other, and he nods.

"Thanks," he tells her politely, as if they've just had a cordial transaction, and holsters his weapon again.

They consult with each other, ignoring her, while she sits on the kitchen floor eyeing the door to the powder room. There's an alarmed window in there – if they haven't shut off the system – if she could just get close enough to lock herself in, she could break the window and then the alarm would notify the police.

Breathing as calmly as she can, she moves barely a millimeter toward the powder room door.

Nothing.

Have they stopped watching her? Are they so convinced she's fear-frozen that they aren't worried?

Another inhale, another almost infinitesimal move toward the door. Inhale … exhale.

Inhale …

"What do you think you're doing?"

Her head snaps back fast enough to thump the wall, fear liquefying her insides.

"Nothing," she stammers. "Nothing, I just –"

"Get up," he orders.

"No," she says recklessly, hanging onto her knees. "Please."

"I said, get _up._ " The taller one hauls her to her feet by one arm and then seizes her wrist. She stays as still as possible, fighting nausea, while he examines her hand.

"So much skill," he murmurs. "So much training." He runs one leather-clad finger along her bare forearm, making her shudder, and then wraps his fingers around hers. "How precise do you think they would be if I broke a few of them?"

"No. Please!" She struggles despite her best intentions, she can't help herself, but he doesn't even seem to mind.

He drops her wrist. "Be stupid again and I won't be so generous."

Relief makes her stomach queasy, her knees liquid.

Standing, her view of the kitchen is totally different. She tries to focus on something. Anything. She can see the far wall now, the framed newspaper clipping from when Derek won the Buchanan grant three years ago.

She stares at the small grey-and-white replication of her husband. _He's not coming home. He's safe at the hospital._ She repeats the words to herself until she calms.

The little newsprint Derek smiles cheekily at her. He was the youngest Buchanan grant recipient in twenty-five years. It's a still picture so it doesn't capture the movement of his face, the way his eyes were sparkling the night of the ceremony. She wore a dress of deep blue silk, cut low in the back, and while they made the rounds shaking hands and accepting congratulations the fingers of his left hand played along her bare spine.

That was three years ago. Suddenly ... it feels very important to remember the last time he touched her.

But she can't.

Maybe her brain is trying to protect her. Maybe Derek would have something to say about that. Because she can't think of him, can't conjure him up in motion the last time she saw him. Clenching her shaking hands, she tries harder.

 _I want to remember you before I die._

And like the dropping of a screen she remembers. Remembers his hand cupping her cheek as they stood on the sun-dappled floor of the bedroom. Morning. Yesterday? Or was it today? She was tired, his hand was warm, and he held her like that for a moment and then tucked her loose hair behind her ear, smiling at her. It was early. It was soft and hazy. She closes her eyes.

 _Are you ever going to touch me again?_

A shiver runs through her.

 _What have I done?_

A gloved hand closes on her arm and she gasps. "No," she says automatically, her voice rising.

"Let's keep our voices down," he scolds in a softly mocking tone. They're words you'd use with a child but his tone is all predator circling its prey. "Nice and quiet. If you need help with that, it can be arranged."

"I'm sorry," she says desperately. "Please don't – "

"Don't beg," he says sharply.

She shrinks back against the wall.

"Sit down," he says coolly, pushing on her shoulder, "and if you move again … I might forget to be nice."

She doesn't have to be told twice, sinking to the floor and hugging her knees.

…

The grandfather clock in the living room chimes out another hour of her life.

Eleven strokes.

Eleven o'clock.

She's too terrified to be tired even though every muscle in her body is screaming with exhaustion.

Her head snaps up when she hears a sound at the front door.

 _No_.

She must have imagined it.

But the men are glancing at each other, and then down at her.

And then she hears a key.

 _No!_

Has Mark come back with his key?

But then she recognizes the jingle of the key ring and with nauseating horror ... she knows.

It's not Mark.

It's her husband. Her husband who has made the same sound at the front door since they bought the brownstone. She's memorized the rhythm of his routine and it's as unmistakable as if he's shouted his name.

They must read the terror in her face.

"No, please, I'll get rid of him," she's not even sure what she's saying, just that they can't kill him, she has to stop them –

The taller one grabs her arms and hauls her to her feet. "Stop talking."

She can't, she's babbling.

He shakes her, just once, but hard enough to startle her into silence, her head snapping back.

"Next time, listen." His fingers are digging into her upper arms. "Are you listening now?"

She nods slowly, her head feeling loose from the shake.

"Good. You're done talking. One more word and we'll be the ones opening the door … to bring your boyfriend your body."

The taller one withdraws his weapon.

"No!" She takes a step back, terrified – are they going to kill her right here in the kitchen?

"Shut up," he says to Addison, grabbing her arm and dragging her toward the door.

 _Don't open the door_ , she begs silently, desperately. _Turn around and leave._

Why of all nights did Derek have to come home on this one?

Their first semester of medical school, they were only ones in their class to get question fifteen right on Lowenstein's notorious exam. They were formally proctored in different rooms at the time. _I guess we just think alike_ , Derek reasoned, but Mark, who liked to start trouble, had another idea: _One of you knew the answer and the other just read that one's mind. So which one of you is the smart one?_

She closes her eyes.

 _I don't care which one of us is the smart one, just please read my mind one more time._

…

Derek senses it as soon as he steps into the foyer. Something is different.

The lights are off, suggesting Addison's asleep – they always keep the downstairs lights on at night until they go upstairs. She must be in bed. He fingers the blackberry in his pocket, annoyed that Mark sent him on a fool's errand when he knows perfectly well how important tonight was for Derek.

Coming home to a darkened foyer and a sleeping wife is nothing new, not with the hours he's been keeping recently.

Still, something is different. Nothing is different, everything is the same – but something is different.

He reaches for the hall light but nothing happens. Confused, he flicks it a few more times.

And then, in the darkness, he hears the unmistakable click of a weapon being cocked.

"What a pleasant surprise," says an unfamiliar voice. "We're all here. Now we can get started."

* * *

 _To be continued. Want the next chapter fast? Keep being awesome, review and let me know!_


	5. Thursday, 11:01 pm

**A/N: _Thank you so much_ for the response to this story. It's a super hectic time, but you are amazing and you deserve updates. (A lot of updates, but let's start with this story.) Thank you again for the reviews and comments, I love hearing what you think, especially since this is so different from my usual fare. **

* * *

_Thursday, 11:01 p.m._

* * *

In the darkness, she hears the unmistakable click of a weapon being cocked. And then the light, sneering voice that's become all too familiar over the last few hours.

And she has no time to process it, no time to fear, or to beg – _don't hurt him, don't hurt Derek –_

Because the leather-clad hand that's been covering her mouth is suddenly gone, she's gasping in air and he's released her.

She has no idea why.

And then she's in Derek's arms and he's holding on tightly, his hands roaming to check for injuries, it seems, even as he clasps her to his body. His voice is an urgent hiss in her ear, for her only: "Are you okay? Addie, talk to me, did they hurt you – "

"I'm okay," she whispers. "They didn't hurt me, but Derek, I have no idea what's going on, they haven't told me anything, I don't – "

"Okay, reunion over."

"No, please," Addison begs at the cold interruption. "We won't do anything, just …"

But she's pulled away from Derek anyway, her hands on his face the last thing to separate as she tries to memorize his skin under her palms and forces herself not to scream.

Derek is calm, so calm – in crisis, he's always calm – except he can't seem to let her go either, he's still reaching for her and then she feels something cold and hard pressing into her side and Derek is gasping, quieting, standing still.

She's trying to remember to breathe, not to flinch, _where's the trigger, if I flinch will it go off,_ she's nothing but a pawn right now to get Derek to cooperate and of course it works: he's frozen in place, rigidly compliant.

The taller one keeps the weapon pressed against her ribcage while the shorter one approaches Derek.

"Move an inch and your next big speech will be her eulogy," he says in that clipped tone, almost … smirking. "After we're done with you, that is," he adds.

Derek doesn't move.

Not an inch, not even a flicker.

Addison finds herself squinting into the light, _everything is relative,_ is it darker or lighter than it usually is in the foyer? Will anything in her life be _usual_ again?

She can't catch his eye, too afraid of causing him to move or moving herself.

The weapon digs in, she can't help crying out at the flash of pain.

"No!" Derek's responding shout is hoarse. "Don't touch her!"

The shorter one seems to have been waiting for this, shoving him hard against the wall.

Addison is frozen, muscles tight around the cold blunt stab.

"You're not in charge here," the man holding Derek says, one hand flat against his chest, the other free as if to show how easy it is to subdue him. "Do you really value her life _that_ little?"

 _Don't answer. Don't antagonize him. They don't know us._

She stays as still as possible, each exhale pushing tender skin into contact with hard metal.

Her breathing is all she can hear, her heartbeat all she can feel. The room is starting to go fuzzy from her short sharp exhales, blurring the edges of her husband's body where it's pressed up against the wall.

 _I'm sorry,_ she says without speaking, only in her mind, _if you can hear me, I'm sorry_.

She's jolted back to the present by another dig of cold metal into her side. In spite of herself, a soft whimper escapes.

Derek is unmoving against the wall; she can see enough of him and _know_ enough of him to realize he's purposefully not turning his head toward her, not trying to antagonize them or direct their focus to her but his eyes are locked on hers nonetheless.

 _I'm sorry, I didn't know, I'm sorry._

The taller man strips off Derek's overcoat, whispering the occasional threat, divesting him of his suit jacket next. For one crazy moment Addison fears he's planning to remove all his clothes – _what the hell do they want –_ and then realizes his intent. A vigorous pat down and shaking of fabrics later he's holding both Derek's hospital-issued blackberry and his little silver cell phone.

She picked that phone out, so tiny and flat it could slide into his breast pocket, gave it to him for Christmas. _I didn't need a new phone,_ he said, surprised, and she said, _I know, but Christmas isn't for things you need, it's for things you want._

"Password?"

"Just tell them," Addison cries desperately, despite having been told to be quiet, despite the threat, because she's seeing him hesitate and knows he'll protest and she's not sure she can bear to see him threatened with a gun again.

"That's the first smart thing I've heard out of you," the shorter one says in that smirking tone. "You going to listen to your wife, doc? Or do you want her to tell you what's going to happen if – "

Derek cuts him off, blurting out the code.

"I didn't quite catch that. Slow down. Pace yourself. What's that you like to say? _It's a marathon, not a sprint?_ "

Addison feels cold all over at his words, cold inside her body, cold along her ribcage where the gun is pressing.

Derek's next recitation is slower, his voice shaking slightly. "0-8-1-5-8-8."

Her gratitude that he obeyed quickly melts away at the man's next words:

"Put them in separate rooms."

…

"Answer me. This housekeeper, how do you talk to her?"

She shakes her head, confused. How can she focus, knowing Derek's on the other side of the wall with the other masked man?

"Pay attention," he snaps at her. " _How_ do you talk to her? Surely you've cancelled before…"

She has. Rosa's a full time employee, they pay into her social security, she's never complained when they give her an unexpected day off. They've cancelled in the past on the rare days she and Derek both have a morning off, so they can stay in bed instead of rushing to the hospital in different directions.

She forces herself to breathe so she won't cry.

"I call her," she whispers. "Or, um, I text her." She bought Rosa a phone specifically to make communicating easier. Last week, she went in late and crossed paths with Rosa and saw pictures of her grandchildren on that phone.

 _Are you going to threaten everyone I know?_

"When? Night before, morning of?"

"What?"

"When. Would you normally. Cancel." His voice is clipped and short, annoyed.

"Either," she says faintly. "Usually, um, early morning."

She's straining desperately to hear Derek in the other room, haunted by her old mantra:

 _Derek's safe in the hospital, Derek's safe in the hospital …_

So much for that.

 _No one is safe anymore._

…

Derek could almost laugh. Adrenaline, panic, everything is surging through him at once and the utter absurdity of Addison on the other side of the wall being threatened and coached to contact their housekeeper and cancel her services like it's the day before a vacation or –

But he has to breathe. He has to focus. He has to stay calm.

Addison's been here alone for god knows how long with these animals, and she said she didn't know what they wanted, which means –

 _It's me. They must want me._

"Let her go," he says to the man standing in front of him.

"Excuse me?"

"Let her go," Derek repeats bravely. "I'm the one you want. Just let my wife go."

"Who says it's you we want?" Even through the limited gape of the mask, Derek can see his smirk. "You really are arrogant, aren't you?"

 _Stay calm,_ he reminds himself. He's had negotiator training at the hospital. He keeps his voice calm and friendly and tries to look confident. "Just let her go, and I'll do whatever you want."

There's a moment of silence.

"You'll _do whatever I want_ ," the man repeats mockingly in that silky voice Derek's already grown to hate, reaching almost casually behind him for his weapon and flicking it against Derek's neck so quickly he can smell the metal.

 _Shit._

The man just continues speaking calmly, his voice sounding far away now that Derek's heartbeat is so loud in his ears, his throat demanding oxygen even as it cringes away from the gun pressing into his flesh.

"Tell me, doc, is there something about this … scenario … that suggests that _you_ decide what you do?"

Derek doesn't answer. There's nothing to say. His world is narrowed to the rush of blood in his skull.

The man in the mask nods, apparently satisfied by his silence. "Good. You really don't want to … make things worse."

Derek regrets the question even as it's forming in his mind – it's never had a good answer, not in the OR and not in his personal life, so it seems especially brutal in this new situation of fear and confusion, but there it is:

 _How the hell could things get worse?_

* * *

 **To be continued. Please review, it's fuel in the engines of my update machine!**


	6. Thursday, 11:18 pm

_**A/N: Thank you all so much for the feedback on this story. I intended to update much faster, so also I apologize up and down and all around the Addek carousel. Chapter 7 is close to being complete, though, so I expect to update a lot more quickly - maybe again this weekend, if people are still eager to read. Thanks for sticking with me.**_

* * *

 _Thursday, 11:18 p.m._

* * *

"I live here," Derek says, regretting his flippant response when he's pushed against the wall. Weapons aside, the intruders haven't … hurt him, not really, and if Addie was being truthful they haven't hurt her either.

Yet the threat is everywhere, draped over the house like a sheer black curtain.

"Let's try again," the other man says, violence a silky undercurrent to his otherwise calm tone. "I'll ask you one more time. Why did you come home?"

Derek's not sure why he answers truthfully.

Maybe it's that with the other man quiet he can hear the smallest of sounds from the other room, an exhale, the whisper of fabric moving and it reminds him that Addison is alone with someone who wants god knows what.

 _Don't hurt her. If I could figure out what you wanted, I'd do it._

"Mark told me to," Derek admits.

"Ah." The masked man nods. "A real man of action on your own, aren't you?"

Derek ignores the baiting.

"And what did _Mark_ say to you, exactly?"

 _Exactly? You're not getting that out of me, no matter how many guns you point at me._

"He was … concerned that Addison didn't answer the door when he stopped by," he says carefully. "He thought it wasn't like her."

"And that made _you_ concerned enough to leave, in the middle of – "

"Hey."

The not yet familiar voice startles Derek.

"We have an issue," the other intruder continues quietly, his words directed toward the man who's been questioning Derek. "Mark-"

"Yeah, I just heard."

Derek is intrigued as they speak to each other, trying to discern the relationship between the men. If only he could dredge a clue from their words about why they're here.

"Mark has a key," the bigger intruder confirms.

"But he never uses it," Derek says hastily.

"So we've been told." The shorter one turns to Derek. "You've caused us problems. It's unfortunate."

His tone is chilling.

"So. First, your wife will tell _Mark_ that she was out to dinner when he made his little visit, but everything's fine now. Safe as houses."

 _As long as this house isn't the standard._

For a moment they make eye contact; when the masked man speaks again, his voice is cold.

"Hold out your hands."

…

Addison shudders, her mind on overdrive between the words of the two masked men and the brief snatches of Derek's voice she can catch through the open doorway. He ordered her not to move, and she hasn't forgotten his reaction to her barely-begun attempt to reach the alarmed window.

 _Do something_ , she tells herself. There must be something she can –

"Get over here," the taller one says casually, leaning just enough into the kitchen for her to see the height of him outlined in the doorway. He's approached from the other side. She moves toward him cautiously, keeping as much distance as she dares.

 _The kitchen. They want to be in the kitchen. Why?_

And then Derek is there too, Addison cringing to see his wrists cuffed together.

The taller one pulls out the chair out from the antique walnut writing table they use as a desk. He tosses down her blackberry.

"Sit," he orders Addison. "And start typing."

"What?" She's confused.

Swiftly, he reaches out and shoves her into the chair; she cries out, startled.

"Don't! She's going!" Derek gets his own shove for his attempt to intercede.

"Let's try this." The taller man moves away; suddenly he has an arm across Derek's throat, the cocked gun next to his head, and now Addison can't type anything at all because she can't stop shaking.

"All right, you made your point." The smaller one moves in front of Derek and his captor, blocking them both from Addison's view. "Just type," he instructs her gruffly, almost kindly.

She's supposed to use her own words, so Mark believes them.

 _How do you know this? Where did you practice?_

He stands over her, watches every letter her shaking fingers tap.

 _Derek said you came by while I was at dinner,_ she types, _sorry for the misunderstanding._ _Didn't mean to worry you._

She glances up at the intruder.

"No code," he says, still in that calm voice. "Nothing to alarm him. Right?"

The way he's looking at her scares her. Like he wants trust.

Like he _expects trust_ …almost like she should already know him.

But there's nothing in his eyes that's familiar; they're just a cold, angry blue.

She nods quickly, and is relieved when he nods to the other man, who releases Derek.

"Get up," the taller man snaps.

"What are you doing?"

"Giving you want you wanted. Some _togetherness_."

And the bigger one jerks Derek toward him by one of his cuffed arms, unlatches the handcuffs with short vicious movements, and then links the open one on Addison's wrist.

"There you go. Now you're together."

Addison shrinks back automatically but he grabs her other arm and tows the linked Shepherds none-too-gently to the long staircase in the foyer. At the base of the stairs, he grabs her free wrist and locked it into a second set of handcuffs; she sinks to her knees to release the pressure as he clicks the other cuff closed on first spoke of the banister.

"Til death do you part," the bigger man says, directing his words to Derek. His lips are smirking through the gap in his mask. "You want to walk away … you'll have to leave her arm behind."

…

Feet from the intruders, there's almost privacy in the dimly lit foyer, even if it takes a little while to find a way to sit that's semi-comfortable but doesn't strain either of their arms. Finally, Addison ends up seated on the second stair with her legs drawn to her chest, Derek on the first leaning half over her with their joined wrists between them.

"I'm so sorry," Derek whispers, touching her face with his free hand.

"What are you sorry about?" She hears the bleakness in her voice. " _I_ should have figured out a way to keep you from coming inside."

"How?" He shakes his head grimly. "You couldn't have done anything." His expression changes to one of concern, his eyes so easy to read even in the low light, and he brushes some of her hair away from her face.

"Are you really okay?"

She's two parts terrified to one part numb, she's chained to her own banister with impossible to break steel links and she's starting to lose feeling in her arm.

Her world has narrowed to a pure, primal need to survive.

She's not all right. She's anything but okay.

But she knows that's not what he's asking.

Nodding, she tries to touch his hand, then winces when her wrist won't move that way. He touches the fingers on the banister instead. "I'm okay. I really am."

He looks relieved, deeply so, for just a moment.

"I don't understand what's going on. I don't even know how it happened," she whispers miserably. "They were just – here."

"When you got home, you mean?"

She shakes her head.

"I thought it was Mark so I actually opened the door for them." She's humiliated at the words, at her own admission, but there's no blame in Derek's expression.

"I don't think the lock would have stopped them if you'd waited," he tells her gently.

She pauses. "Derek … what do you think they want?"

"I don't know," he says quietly. "Money?"

She shakes her head. "I offered them money, I even – I even told them about the safe …"

His body tenses against hers.

"They didn't touch the safe, as far as I know," she says. "The only password they took was my for my blackberry."

"And they didn't touch you."

"No, I told you." She pauses. "Derek … what did they say to you? When you were alone?"

"Nothing useful."

"But if they're not interested in you and they're not interested in me," and she can hear her tone growing more desperate with each word, "then _why are they here_?"

He looks as helpless as she feels and then she's suddenly, painfully exhausted. If only she could sleep and then wake up from this nightmare.

She manages to turn her forehead against Derek's shoulder, at least, the shape of it warm and familiar through the fabric of his dress shirt; his free arm cradles her.

"It's going to be okay, Addie. We'll make it out."

She lets the tone of his voice soothe her even if the words don't make sense. "How," she whispers, "Derek, _how_ can we make it out if we don't even know what they want?"

He's silent for a few moments and she just drinks in his closeness – the scent of him that should feel safe and permanent, instead of terrifyingly temporary.

"Maybe we don't have to make it out," he says finally. "Maybe we just have to make it through."

* * *

 _ **To be continued. Pretty please review and let me know what you think ... and when you want another chapter ASAP. I'm in an updating mood and the fingers are flying, so you should be getting more of something this weekend ... xoxo**_


	7. Thursday, 11:29 pm

**_I love your thoughts and comments, even if they're "update before I cut a bitch" and "tell me what's going on here, sadist." You're awesome ... so here's another's chapter._**

* * *

 _Thursday, 11:29 p.m._

* * *

"Isn't this cozy," a cold voice interrupts.

They break apart, the illusion of peaceful privacy broken. They haven't finished talking, though. They aren't prepared for what's coming next. How can they be?

"Get up," the taller man directs Addison.

"No," she bleats, clutching at the banister with the frozen fingers of her cuffed hand. A gong sounds then from the living room.

It's the grandfather clock, announcing the passage halfway through another hour.

"Get _up_ ," he repeats, uncuffing the arm that's been bound to the banister; it flops useless at her side. She cries out in pain.

Derek glares at both men, turning within the confines of their linked wrists so he can massage some circulation back into her arm.

That hurts too.

Her body is stiff and cramped from its previously hunched position, but she's pulled to her feet anyway, her left hand still cuffed to Derek's right.

Nervous, too exhausted at this point to hide it, she hangs back when the taller man reaches for her, trying to stay with Derek.

"No," she whimpers before she can stop herself, jerking from his rough grip.

And then pain explodes around her face as the back of one of his hands connects with her cheek.

Yelling.

Loud.

Fireworks under her eyes.

Everyone is yelling now.

Derek is yelling at both men until his voice goes grey because the taller one has him by the throat, ordering him to shut up. Then the shorter one is snapping at the taller one to stop it, _we're not supposed to, you know that,_ that's what he says.

But Addison has no time to dissect the words, too busy taking the opportunity to kick the man who's choking Derek, as hard as she can. She aims for his crotch, not caring how the metal at her wrist is twisting against the bone.

As soon as her foot makes contact, the man releases Derek with a groan that quickly becomes a nasty sort of laugh.

"You little spitfire."

He sounds almost admiring as he grabs her, twisting her already painful arm up her back. She cries out; Derek, who is still linked to her with one set of cuffs, pleads hoarsely on her behalf until both men tell him to shut up.

"Unhook them," the taller one tells his partner, and Addison feels the metallic pressure around her wrist release.

It feels good, almost, for a moment, but since that was the last chain holding her to Derek it's also terrifying.

Once she's untethered, the one she kicked grabs both her upper arms and drags her close to his face; she tries to avoid looking at him but his eyes pierce hers through the cutouts of his mask.

" _Don't_ try to be a hero," he snaps. "There are no heroes here. Do you understand?" He gives her a rough shake. "Answer me."

"No heroes," she repeats, heart pounding. "Just villains, right?"

"Addie, don't."

Derek is shaking his head at her when she glances over, the shorter holding him back with a gloved hand that threatens more, and she knows he's right, but –

"Keep your smart mouth shut," the taller one says, his tone calm now, maintaining his iron grip on her arms. "Or I'll do it for you."

"Okay." Her voice is a whisper, the fight out of her for the moment. "Okay, but please can't we just –"

"No," he says simply. " _We_ can't."

The two intruders share a glance that she desperately wishes she could understand.

"He can stay," the shorter man says shortly, pointing to the foyer. "She'll go."

"Wait," Addison cries in spite of herself, not wanting to be separated, but she kicks herself for it when she sees Derek's lips move, _he's trying to tell me something,_ but her own voice drowns it out.

 _Hold on, Derek. Whatever I've done, whatever's happened to us, this can't be the last time I see you._

…

"Hold out your hands."

Same words, same gesture, same cuffs. Derek lifts his wrists without protest, trying to hear whatever is happening in the kitchen. So far … silent.

 _That's good. Silent is good._

The cuffs close with a metallic click, binding his hands together.

"What do you want?"

Derek asks it abruptly, before he can censor himself.

"Right now?" The intruder smirks through his mask. "Silence would be a good start."

 _Then why are you here?_

Derek forces himself to stay still as a hand reaches toward him, but all it does is push on his chest until he's sitting on the steps again.

"You want to hold your ground, hold it there."

He does.

He holds it, quietly, until he can't resist speaking again. Maybe it was two seconds, maybe it was two minutes, but this waiting feels like he's going to lose his mind. Why haven't they asked for anything, other than silence, other than obedience? What the hell are they waiting for?

His mind feels swollen, heavy, and like a balloon losing air the words escape his mouth.

"You said before … _now we can get started._ "

If the intruder is surprised by his question, there's no sign. "Yes. And?"

"And …. " But he's not sure how to finish the sentence.

"Oh. " His voice is mocking. "I see. You think because you're not privy to our … discussions … that we haven't … _started_ yet?"

The ominous pauses between words chill him, as he's sure they were designed to do. Just trying to keep up with the confusion, the semi-controlled chaos, is exhausting.

"Just … give it a rest." The intruder says the words simply, almost as if he's … offering advice. Trying to help him.

"You're not in the OR now," he continues. "You don't decide what happens next. Not anymore. So you can stop asking. When we need something from you … believe me, you'll know."

Derek draws a deep breath, or as deep as his bruised throat will allow. He could massage the area even with his hands cuffed, but he doesn't. Stupidity, or maybe just bravado.

Maybe that was what the men were doing too - maybe it didn't mean anything at all, what they said. They could have been … boasting, just talking.

 _But is that better or worse?_

…

They don't cuff her hands. Not when she's alone. Even with the inches she moved, hours ago now, toward the bathroom door, they still don't seem to see her as a threat.

Recalling that moment is a mistake, because she starts to feel a sense of urgency she'd rather not share. Needing _anything_ would be a mistake now. The last thing she needs is more vulnerability.

No sounds escape the foyer, to her relief. Was Derek's arrival home as surprising to them as it was to her? Maybe they weren't waiting for him at all.

 _What, then?_ Her, after all?

"If it's me you want," she starts before she loses her nerve, "can't you let my husband go?"

The man moves toward her, very slightly, but doesn't say anything; her mouth dries in the silence.

When he finally speaks it's to mimic her, tone insultingly high pitched. " _If it's me you want_ ," he repeats. "You have quite the ego, don't you? Think everyone wants you?" He pauses, and she can't see his face but flushes anyway at the appraising look it's clear he's giving. "Maybe ten years ago," he says after a moment. "You're a little past your prime now, sweetheart."

She winces automatically at his coarseness. Her face is still throbbing. She can't make out a peep from the other room.

"But if you don't want anything from us, why are you here?"

"Don't want anything from you?" His voice is that cold, mocking tone again. "Is that what you've decided?"

A chill runs through her. "But you – but you haven't …"

"Don't you listen? What we _want_ isn't your concern. Trust me, we'll make clear what we want … when we want it. And now, what I want is for you to shut up." He pauses. "If that's too hard for you, I can think of a few ways to help … ones that won't leave any marks."

Nausea overwhelms her.

"I'll shut up," she says quickly.

"Good choice."

A phone buzzes then. They all sound the same. _Mine or yours?_ That's what they used to say, she and Derek, when one of their pagers went off, when someone's blackberry vibrated against the surface of a nightstand or tablecloth. It's happened less and less, recently, because they have to be together for their electronics to go off at the same time. Her stomach tightens.

The masked man snatches up the buzzing device. Her blackberry.

" _Mark,"_ he says, staring at the phone for a moment. "… again." Then his eyes, piercing from the holes in his mask, are back on her. "That bastard doesn't give up, does he?

 _God, I hope not. We need someone out there who won't give up on us._

* * *

 ** _To be continued. That was pretty quick, right? Show me some love and I'll get another chapter up this week for sure. And I can tell you things are gonna start unfolding ... If it helps, updates on some other WIPs are brewing close to done... thank you, thank you, review please, and thank you!_**


	8. Thursday, 11:56 pm

**_A/N: Maybe safe to say I'm on a roll? I'm hoping to update one more story today. If you have a preference as to which one (as long as it's not The Climbing Way, where each chapter is roughly 100,000 words), let me know. MEANWHILE, back to this story. Thank you so much for all the feedback. I know it's tense - and frustrating too - but everything will unfold if you keep reading. Addison and Derek are as anxious for answers as you are (okay, maybe a little bit more). I hope you enjoy the chapter._**

* * *

 _Thursday, 11:56 p.m._

* * *

She's slumped against the cold kitchen wall, cheek throbbing, half-numb arm tingling uncomfortably. For long moments her captor studies her, and then he paces to the refrigerator – vast and silver, Derek never liked it, but she assured him the fixtures he saw as unconscionably expensive would increase the resale value of the house. _Resale_.

She shudders.

 _Forget selling it – will we ever get to leave it?_

The masked man is rooting in the large freezer with disturbing casualness; he comes up with a small ice pack, probably leftover from Derek's painful dental procedure a couple of years back. His cheek swelled and she lay next to him for hours, icing his heated skin off and on, waiting until the painkillers kicked in to tease him about his slurred speech.

"Let me see."

She flinches at his voice, and at the hand that's reaching for her face. But he does nothing more than tilt it toward the meager light, and then place the ice pack on her painful cheekbone.

"Thanks," she says quietly.

He doesn't respond, just sits down in the desk chair above her.

And then her phone vibrates. Just once – a text.

She cringes automatically as he grabs it, and then reads out.

" _You must be back from dinner by now. Please. I really need to see you."_

She sits very still as if he's a bee she's hoping won't sting her.

"Why does he _need_ to see you?"

"I don't know," she whispers.

" _Don't_ lie to me."

"I'm not! I think he – I mean maybe he – knows something's wrong."

She regrets it as soon as she says it.

He throws down the phone and drops to the floor in front of her, quick as a cat, to grabs her face between both hands.

It's not hard exactly, but she can't help gasping when he grips her aching cheek, and the forced closeness to him makes her nauseated. He grits each word out like it tastes bad and the coldness in his eyes leaves her chest tight. " _Did. You. Warn. Him_."

"No! I swear I didn't. He's just – he just knows us really well."

"Oh yeah?" He leers. "How well?"

She doesn't like the look in his eyes. When one hand leaves her face, coming to rest on her sweatpant-covered thigh, she likes it even less.

"Stop," she says firmly, looking in his eyes. She keeps her voice calm, trying to summon her training. "Don't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't like it."

He doesn't stop. But he doesn't move his hand higher, thankfully, just continues massaging her thigh for a moment or two while she fights nausea and stays as still as possible.

"Does your arm still hurt?"

"No," she lies.

He settles against the wall next to her.

"Come over here and I'll rub it."

She shakes her head.

"Don't be a martyr. What are you afraid of?"

"Not you," she says rashly.

The visible part of his face smirks. "Then you're not as smart as your CV makes it look. If I wanted to do something, I would have already done it." He pauses. "The night's still young," he adds, and she shudders.

Suddenly, a loud gong cuts through the air. Once, twice … all the way to an even dozen. The grandfather clock in the living room, announcing the stroke of midnight.

Announcing the end of another day.

And then a sudden rashness leaves her feeling like she has nothing to lose. "Actually, the night's over," she says. "It's after midnight. It's tomorrow."

"Is it? You mean we already spent our first night together? I waited all that time and I didn't even get a chance to celebrate?"

His mocking tone is cold, far from the almost solicitous one he's displayed at other times.

But then her heart skids to a stop as her exhausted brain parses his words. _Our first night together. I waited all that time._

Cold terror floods her body.

"Who _are_ you?"

Their faces are so close together that for a second she thinks she can see something flicker in his blue eyes, but just as soon it vanishes.

"Let's get some circulation back, shall we?" His tone is calm again, almost friendly, and she tries to force herself to follow along with the quick shift in mood.

"Come here," he says, in that same disconcertingly sympathetic tone. But she's frozen, so he moves her bodily toward him like a rag doll and she doesn't stop him, just going limp and hoping that whatever is going on upstairs isn't going to hurt Derek too badly.

His hands are surprisingly gentle and practiced on her arm. After a moment or two some of the numb cramping releases. Another moment and much of the pain has dissipated.

"Take a lot of hostages?"

"Wise guy," he says, sounding almost amused. He keeps massaging.

And then hears a sound from upstairs – a cry of pain.

"No!"

She lurches forward, terrified, and then arms grabs her from behind, restraining her against the hard wall of an unfamiliar body. "Shh," he croons into her ear, a grotesque parody of comfort, and she shivers, forcing herself not to make it worse by resisting.

Her heart is pounding her ribcage. There's a swirl of paisley in front of her eyes and for a moment she's convinced she's going to pass out.

"Relax," the voice above her says firmly. "He's fine."

"He's not fine," she whimpers, heart banging against her chest, trying to catch her breath. "Or he wouldn't have – or he wouldn't – "

"Just relax," he repeats, and then his hand is on the top of her head, forcing it between her knees. "Breathe," he instructs her.

He's crazy. That's the only possibility. _Breathe?_ With his hands all over her, with Derek subjected to god knows what upstairs? With their presence still a big frightening question mark in the middle of her own home?

She forces herself to obey. Slow, deep breaths. They feel as unnatural as the leather-clad arms that are … _holding_ her, there's no other way to describe it, and a desire to end this version of an embrace helps her gain control of her breathing.

"Okay," she says tightly when she can speak, trying to raise her head. He allows it, but keeps his arm around her.

"Can you please let go of me?" She tries to sound casual instead of desperate.

"Don't you like it?"

"No, I don't."

He doesn't move.

"You're shaking," he observes.

 _Gosh, I wonder why._

…

"Tell me what's going on," Derek demands as soon as they're alone in the bedroom.

The intruder shuts the door behind him and leans against it.

"You don't give orders here, remember, doc? I give orders. You? You listen or you feel pain, you got it?"

Derek doesn't say anything.

 _Damn it_ , the backhand is this one's favorite move.

Derek's first thought as light explodes under his eyes is rage that Addison was subjected to the same thing.

"Got it," he repeats stiffly, dying to massage his throbbing cheekbone but not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

"Good. So let's start – god _damn_ it," the intruder snaps when a vibrating sound interrupts them.

"My phone," Derek says weakly.

The intruder checks the device. " _Mark Sloan_. This same asshole. Why won't he leave you alone?"

"I don't know," Derek admits. "He and Add – my wife had plans, I guess. I wasn't supposed to be home tonight."

"Oh, _plans._ " The visible parts of his face form a smirk. "Is that how it is? You like to watch, or you just wait for the highlight reel later?"

"Fuck you."

He takes a right hook but decides it was worth it, even when it's followed up with a wind-stealing elbow to the gut.

And then he just stands there, breathing hard, the other side of his face on fire now.

"Like I was saying," the intruder continues calmly, "maybe he and your wife…."

"No. Mark is like a brother to me. To both of us," he explains. "That's why he was coming over earlier and that's why he keeps texting and if you want him to go away you're going to have to let us talk to him."

"Oh, I'm going to _have to_ do that?"

Derek doesn't take the bait. "I'm just saying, I know Mark. He's like a dog with a bone. He won't stop until he sees us."

"Then he'll have to see you." He glances at Derek, disgust on the visible parts of his face, but is there something else, too? Regret? Or is it fear?

He remembers the other intruder's words in the melee on the staircase, right after this one backhanded Addison.

 _We're not supposed to do that, you know that_.

"What's wrong?" Derek asks daringly. "Don't I look like someone who can pretend everything's all right?"

"No. You look like someone who can't keep his smart mouth shut," the intruder grits, any flicker of humanity gone from his eyes.

He drags Derek with him downstairs.

Derek's heartened to see Addison looking no more damaged than the last time he saw her, sitting on the kitchen floor, uncuffed hands wrapped around her updrawn knees. The other captor is sitting in front of her – it's an oddly intimate pose as if they've been confiding in each other, despite her stiff posture. But other than the dark red bruising on one side of her face, she looks unharmed.

…

She looks up blearily when Derek enters the kitchen with the taller captor, relief flooding her to see him on his feet – and then turning to angry concern when she sees the marks on his face. He's been roughed up.

"Derek. _Derek_ , are you –"

"Shut up," the taller intruder says carelessly, then turns to his partner. "I need to see her wrists."

To Addison he snaps: "Try anything and I'll kill you _after_ I kill him."

Wordlessly she holds out her wrists. He grabs her forearms and pulls her roughly to her feet in one rapid movement, then lifts her arms, examining her wrists.

"Put her in long sleeves," he tells the other captor cryptically.

"Right. But what about her face?" He shakes his head, indicating the spot on her cheek where she can feel a bruise forming.

"Makeup," the taller one says. "Women know how to fix those things. She'll do it … she'd _better_ do it," he threatens. "Get her upstairs."

"Wait," Addison whimpers, reaching out a hand toward Derek

The smaller one yanks her toward him by one bicep and her hands just graze him with no real contact.

"Didn't we just say not to try anything?"

"I wasn't trying anything," she pleads, heart pounding. "I wasn't, I just - can he come upstairs with me?"

The shorter man looks Addison up and down for a moment. "Let's see how you look when I'm finished with you and I'll consider it."

And just like that, she's nauseated again.

He pulls her by one sore wrist toward the staircase; she has no choice but to follow even as she hears Derek calling her name – muffled, by nothing too terrible, she hopes.

"What are you doing?" She can't help the panicked question.

"It's what _you're_ doing," he says, his tone chilling, as he yanks her toward her bedroom. "And you're putting on a little show ... for some pretty harsh critics."

Before she can digest this, he's dragged her toward her large closet. Flinging it open, he holds her off by one forearm and starts rifling through the carefully hung clothes; she's too confused to protest.

Finally, he turns with an armful of fabric.

"What are you doing?" She repeats. "What are you doing with my clothes?"

"Getting you ready for the performance of your life," he says coldly. "Screw it up … and it will be the last performance of _both_ of your lives."

* * *

 _ **To be continued, by this weekend if you inspire me. Thank you as always for reading and please let me know what you think. Reviews make the tired fingers worth it.**_


	9. Friday, 12:16 am

**_A/N: Thank you so much for all your comments and thoughts. I hope you'll keep sharing them. (And on another Addek note, I am still working on the next chapter of The Climbing Way, but I swear it's coming.)_**

* * *

 _Friday, 12:_ _16 a.m._

* * *

The performance of her life? What does that even –

She looks up just in time to catch the phone he's tossed to her.

"Tell _him_ to come over."

Her stomach twists. "It's – late," she falters.

"And yet … we've scarcely even started." The masked man pauses. "Text or call?"

"What?" Her head is too fuzzy to understand and when he takes a menacing step toward her she takes an automatic one back in return.

"Which would you normally do? Text him or call him?"

"Either. I don't know." Her heart is pounding.

They really want her to summon Mark to this house of horrors, to talk to him – in front of them?

If they don't kill Mark, then hearing what Mark has to say might just kill _her_.

Not to mention Derek.

Regret courses through her.

 _If we never get out of this…._

"Are you waiting for an invitation?"

"No. Sorry." Her fingers fumble on the keys. "He, um, he might be asleep."

"I'll take my chances. Do it."

His tone brooks no argument and she finds herself texting Mark. Her voice is too likely to betray her on the phone.

The intruder extends a gloved palm; Addison hands him the unsent text for approval.

"'I'm home if you want to stop by,'" he reads aloud, then pauses. "Brief, and to the point. Fine. Send it."

She does.

The phone buzzes almost immediately.

 _What about Derek?_

The intruder reads over her shoulder. "What _about_ Derek?"

He sounds almost amused; she feels ill.

"He's, uh, he's asking – "

" – whether he went back to work?" Now the intruder definitely sounds amused. "A fair question."

"What should I – "

"Tell him he's asleep," the man says in a tone suggesting he's speaking to a particularly slow child.

Buzz. _I'll be there in twenty minutes, tops._

Buzz. _And answer the door this time, will you?_

She can hardly breathe.

He's really coming.

The intruder is watching her; she's grown unfortunately accustomed to tracking the movement of his eyes.

"Here's how this is going to work," he tells her calmly. "We get you ready – "

She can't help shuddering at the _we_.

" – and you'll answer the door, and then you'll get rid of him once and for all."

"How do I …"

"I guess you'll have to use your feminine wiles."

The intruder takes a few steps forward until he's standing in front of her. With serious effort, she doesn't react. Then his leather-gloved hand lifts toward her; she flinches automatically, but he does nothing more than cup her cheek – the uninjured one.

Frozen, she waits for him to move. He just holds her like that for a moment, while she stands stiffly, hardly daring to breathe. Then he moves his hand slightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She's shocked – and disgusted – to see his lips twist up into something like a smile.

 _Let go, let go, let go._

He does.

And then he clears his throat and turns to sift through the clothes he pulled from her closet.

When he approaches again, she shrinks back; with short annoyed movements he yanks her toward him, fingers biting into her arm, and pulls down the neck of her tee shirt to expose one bare shoulder.

She stands perfectly still, not wanting to encourage him in any way by resisting.

Then he's rifling through her second dresser drawer, retrieving a silky black bra and a lacy white one, examining them from all angles, including the labels.

"Nice," he says. "Very nice. No expense spared, I see. Only the best for you."

She presses her lips together, ignoring him as best as she can.

 _He's trying to rile you up. Just let him. Don't react._

She doesn't say anything, and then he's in front of her once more; she's frozen as one of his gloved hands dips clinically into the bunched up waist of her sweatpants.

"No panties." He raises an eyebrow. "What a surprise. What were your plans for tonight, exactly?"

"They're sweatpants," she says as calmly as she can manage. "My plan was to relax and go to bed."

"But first you were entertaining your friend."

"He was coming over to say hi, and it wouldn't have been a big deal – "

" - if we hadn't ruined your night?" He shrugs. "Sorry about that."

He doesn't sound sorry; she doesn't respond.

And then he's rifling in her top dresser drawer, pulling out a pair of silky black panties.

"You wouldn't want to not match," he says, sounding amused. He stands in front of her again, studying her in a way that makes her want to run.

 _Don't._

"Arms up," he says, as if talking to a child, and her mouth dries.

She doesn't move.

"You going to do it or am I going to make you do it?"

There's only one answer to that. She lifts her arms in the air and he strips off the tee shirt, tosses it aside, and then takes a step back.

"Nice," he says again, admiringly, his tone curdling her stomach with nausea, "I like a woman who takes care of herself."

She doesn't say anything; the instinct to cover herself is so strong it's almost painful, but she stays still, afraid to rile him up further.

He tosses the bra her way. "Put that on."

She does, with no small measure of relief.

Then he's handing her a top – a rather fitted and low cut satin top.

"It's going to look strange if I'm wearing this after midnight," she says tentatively. "Mark would expect me in sweats."

"Well," the intruder says, again in that tone suggesting she's remarkably stupid, "you're going to have put some makeup on that pretty face – a lot of makeup – so you need to be dressed to match. This isn't my first rodeo, sweetheart."

The shirt is long sleeved; when it's on, he inspects her covered wrists. "Perfect."

She's aware he's not going to leave, so she strips off her sweatpants herself, anxious to be finished with this humiliating endeavor and to keep whatever distance she can.

To her dismay, he doesn't hand over the panties, but instead inches them up her legs in a disturbing perversion of a lover; she grits her teeth hard so she won't cry.

"Here."

He hands her trousers – black cigarette pants she rarely wears; part of her dares to hope that Mark will find some meaning in that … but she doubts it.

Even Mark, who notices her so much, is hardly likely to see that.

Next from her closet: black pumps with four-inch heels.

"I don't wear shoes like that around the house," she says firmly, "they're not good for the floors. Mark wouldn't expect to – "

"I'll take my chances," he interrupts, grinning disconcertingly. "I want to see you in them."

She shudders.

But at least, finally, she's dressed, the added height from her shoes bringing her a few inches above the intruder's head.

In the bathroom, he sits on the white chaise lounge and watches her apply makeup. For the most part he leaves her alone, though he occasionally reaches out a hand to stroke one of her legs.

"Very nice," he says approvingly – nauseatingly – but it's true that foundation and carefully applied blush have hidden the growing bruise on her cheekbone. Eyeliner and illuminating shadow have erased some of the exhaustion from her eyes.

The fear, though. That's still there when she studies her face in the mirror.

 _Mark – are you going to see that?_

"Do something with your hair," the intruder adds coolly. "It doesn't go with the outfit."

He's not wrong; the hair that was loose and straight is rumpled from their various scuffles, the top layer starting to frizz.

She dampens it and re-dries it with a round brush; she's afraid to heat the flatiron or curling iron in case he decides it's a weapon.

Finally, her hair as dressy as her clothes, she sets down the dryer.

"You look good enough to eat," the intruder declares and she shudders.

"What's taking so long?" Derek paces the few feet of kitchen wall available to him, trying to stop the instinctual tugging at his cuffed wrists.

"Why, you have somewhere to be?" The intruder barely looks up.

"If he hurts her …"

"You're not really in a position to bargain, are you, tough guy?" The man shakes his head.

"I swear-"

"Relax," the intruder cuts him off. "She's more useful in one piece."

"Useful for what?"

"Tell you what … your wife gets rid of that busybody Sloan when he shows up, once and for all … and we'll fill you in."

"When he shows up? Mark is coming over?"

" _Dog with a bone_ … didn't you say that?"

"Yes, but – "

"Relax," the man says again, the word just as offensively incongruous as the last time. "Wifey plays her part right, and he'll leave in one piece too."

There's a noise from upstairs; his heart speeds up.

"What are they doing up there?"

"Shut up," the intruder says, with no particular severity.

Figuring he should save his rebellion for when he has more information; he obeys, just leaning back against the wall and trying not to vomit when he imagines what could be happening upstairs.

 _Addison … hang on._

He pushes her ahead of him downstairs with a none-too-gentle hand on her shoulder. She hears movement in the kitchen and then Derek is there with cuffed wrists and an expression of worried confusion.

He searches her face; she gives him a wobbly but perhaps passable smile.

 _I'm okay_ , she tries to tell him.

Her husband is in his shirtsleeves, top few buttons open, looking exhausted and worse for the wear by now with both sides of his face red and swollen, bruises growing; he's holding himself in a way that confirms her earlier suspicion that something was done to his torso.

The larger intruder gestures to her. "Move," he says, and she descends the rest of the stairs.

"Here's how it's gonna work," he continues. "You and your lapdog get the foyer and the living room. That's it. We'll stay in the kitchen … like this."

And he yanks Derek against him, cocked gun in his ribs; he can't seem to help a groan of pain.

"Please!" Addison cries.

The intruder ignores her. "You get once chance. Sloan knocks, you let him in, you talk to him, and you get rid of him. I don't care what you have to say … just do it. Stick to the plan and make sure he doesn't come back, or it'll be on your head when this one gets shot."

He thrusts the gun toward Derek again and Addison gasps.

"I'll do it," she assures him, voice trembling. "I will."

"Good."

"Addie, be careful," Derek whispers.

"Not another word," the shorter intruder snaps, suddenly reaching out to grab Derek's bruised face.

"Please don't hurt him!" Addison takes a step forward only to be shoved back.

"You want me to just shoot him now and get it over with? Is that what you want?"

She takes another shove before she answers.

Because her mind is starting to work.

"No," she says quickly, pretending she hasn't just realized something. "I'm sorry," she adds for good measure, and he nods.

And they all look up at the single gong echoing from the living room.

One o'clock.

Nineteen minutes since Mark texted.

Everything moves quickly, then; the two intruders move to the darkened kitchen, Derek between them with a weapon on either side of his abused body.

And then, right on time … there's a knock at the front door.

She draws a deep breath.

 _You can do this. You can convince him you're fine, you can protect Derek, you can …_

Her stomach curdles at the thought of what he might say. But he'll think Derek is asleep, so they'll whisper … in the living room … .

Before she can anger the intruders, she pulls the door open, having to fight tears when she remembers this is how the night began.

 _Why weren't you there the first time? You're never late!_

"Mark," she whispers when the doorway frames his familiar face. He's wearing his trademark leather jacket – except the smell of leather turns her stomach now, and maybe always will. "I'm sorry I worried you," she adds.

"Addison. Look at you." His gaze skims over her outfit. "That must have been some dinner." He smiles, but he looks preoccupied.

She tries to force a smile in return.

"You gonna let me in?"

"Yes ... of course, but Derek's sleeping."

"You said."

"And I'm tired, so…."

"Okay." He frowns a little. "You did tell me to come over."

Her heart pounds. _Fix it, Addie. Fix it._

"I felt terrible that I wasn't here when you came by before," she says, forcing her voice to remain steady, "and you said you wanted to see me, so…."

"I did want to see you. I do." He ambles into the living room – has he always seemed so comfortable here?

She follows him, heartbeat so loud in her ears she's afraid she'll pass out.

What if he asks for something from the kitchen?

"Mark – "

He turns, eyes looking dark in the dim light of the living room. "I wanted to talk to you," he says slowly.

 _No. Please._

The idea of a beaten Derek having to hear Mark refer to the way she verbally betrayed him … no.

"Mark," she begins, desperate to stop him. "Listen, please, I – "

"I'm sorry," he says.

"You – what?" Now she's confused.

"It wasn't what you think," he says. He's searching her face and she needs an excuse to look away before he suspects something.

"I, uh, I don't really want to talk about this now," she says, her voice thin.

"Okay." He frowns a little. "We do need to talk about it at some point, though."

"I know," she says. "I just … I'm really tired."

"Yeah?" Mark cocks his head, studying her face. "Okay. I'll let you go, then."

"I'll just see you tomorrow," Addison prompts as she walks him to the door, praying he'll leave without incident.

And praying she really will see him tomorrow.

"Tomorrow. Right."

In the doorway he hesitates for a moment, looking at her. "Addie, are you sure you don't …."

His voice trails off.

"Good night, Mark," she says firmly, forcing the most genuine smile she can muster.

The door closes behind him with a solid thunk, cutting off her last hope for rescue.

She leans against the wall, needing its support, afraid to leave her designated area.

"Brava," the taller intruder sneers, clapping with audible sarcasm as he walks out of the kitchen. "Top notch performance."

The wall is shaking.

No – her legs are shaking.

The smaller intruder follows, shoving Derek ahead of him. "'I'll just see you tomorrow.' Nice touch."

A sudden daring seizes her. "Will I?" She asks.

"See him tomorrow, you mean?" The intruder pauses for a moment. "That depends on a few things."

Her heart thumps.

The taller one takes her by the arm; the smaller one kills the rest of the lights, peering through the glass panels, presumably to ensure Mark has left.

It's so dark she can't even see shadows.

"Johnson," a male voice says, and she has only a moment to think _that can't be his real name_ before the lights flick back on.

And it's no longer just the four of them in the foyer.


	10. Friday, 1:07 am

**A/N:** Hi, I'm back, and I am so sorry I was gone for so long. To make up for it, here's a super long chapter the size of two regular ones. Time to move this puppy along. I always meant for this story to be frequently updated, but work got crazy. If you're still reading, I'm still writing - and I will update this story again this weekend if there's enough interest. (And maybe some others too.) So, back to the brownstone...

* * *

 _Friday, 1:07 a.m._

* * *

Addison's stomach swoops with fear at the unexpected sight of two new figures standing in the foyer.

Standing in front of the staircase is a man dressed much like the men who forced their way into the house hours ago: all black, masked face, holstered to the sort of weapon she's never seen this close.

And then there's a woman.

She has to blink twice at that.

A _woman_.

She's tall and lean, taller than Addison even in the incongruously high heels the intruder forced her to wear. She's dressed all in black, high boots, with glittering dark eyes and a severe haircut. There's a small weapon holstered to her hip.

And she looks serious.

 _Deadly serious._

The woman turns to the new male intruder. "Go," she says simply, and he seems to understand that single word because he turns and swiftly makes his way … up the stairs.

Addison shudders, nausea starting to overtake her. But how did they …

Have they been …

Disgust crawls over her skin.

 _How long have they been here?_

She stares at the female intruder's cold, unreadable face.

 _Wait._

Her _face._

Now Addison finds herself shuddering with a new kind of terror. No mask … but that means that –

The female captor catches Addison looking at raises an eyebrow.

"Don't look so surprised. Haven't you heard?" The woman's voice is silky-smooth, amused: "Women can do anything now."

Addison winces.

The woman turns to the two male intruders. "Isn't that right, gentlemen?"

"Yes, boss," the taller one mutters.

 _Boss._

The woman nods, apparently satisfied, then turns to Derek, who's standing warily in the intruder's grip.

"What happened to his face?" she asks, her voice dangerously quiet.

Tense silence descends around them.

"No marks," the woman says evenly, her voice ice-cold. "Did you misunderstand your orders?"

Neither of the male intruders answers.

And then, so quickly there's no time to react, one black-clad arm rises and her pistol slams into the taller intruder's face.

A cry of shock tears from Addison's lips. For some reason, this act of violence feels more horrifying than anything done to Derek or to her.

His nose is covered by his mask, but she can still see blood dripping garishly down their captor's face. Their female captor just watches him impassively, then jerks her chin in his direction.

Ignoring his injured face, the taller intruder takes Addison's arm and pulls her toward the kitchen. She's still too shocked to object. Despite his silence, he's walking stiffly and the sticky metallic smell of blood surrounds him, nauseating her.

He clicks her wrists back into handcuffs without speaking.

She shivers at the way the female intruder struck him so hard like it was nothing.

 _We're not safe. None of us._

Tears fill her eyes as he pushes her down to the floor in the same spot on the floor she vacated earlier. He stares at her while she tries to swipe at the tears with her cuffed hands.

"You're something else." He sounds disgusted and he shakes his head, blood still dripping steadily. "Not a peep when you get slugged, and now you're sniveling because I did?"

She doesn't respond; he turns away.

"I can look at it," she offers, not even sure why except maybe he'll uncuff her, or at least take off his mask, and then –

"You can stay over there and shut up," he responds, his tone nasal.

So much for that. She wraps her cuffed wrists around her updrawn legs, holding herself closely the way she wishes her husband could instead, and rests her head on her knees.

"Clean yourself up."

Addison's head jerks up at the unexpected interruption. _How_ does their female captor move with such unnerving silence?

"Don't make me ask twice," she tells the male intruder coolly. "Bloodstains are so difficult to remove from hardwood floors."

Addison shudders, and the female captor turns to her. She studies her for a moment as if she's a mildly interesting slide under a microscope.

"Tell me," she says, her voice surprisingly soft, "do you and your husband discuss patients?"

"Patients?" Addison blinks. With no preamble, she's finding it hard to focus on the unexpected question.

"Yes. Patients."

But her brain feels slow, sticky like honey.

"Do you talk about _work_ ," she enunciates this time, annoyance flickering into her calm tone, as if she's speaking to a particularly slow child.

 _We don't talk about much of anything these days._

The disloyal thought hits her and bounces out just as quickly, like the hard little pink rubber balls she used to hurl at the side of the guest house as a girl.

 _We used to talk. About everything. Patients, other doctors … everything._

They'd bounce ideas off each other, share experiences. Talk about their fears, their hopes. Derek stood across from her the first time she cut into a human body.

 _What do you talk about if you can't talk about what you did all day?_

The female intruder is standing over her, and Addison gets the sense she's losing patience.

"We … yes. We discuss procedures," she says carefully, "or treatment plans, sometimes, and our, uh … experiences, outcomes … but never any patient identifying information."

"What does that mean?"

Addison forces herself to remain calm and focused. It's okay – it's just a question about hospital policy, one she's answered many times before, for lawyers, in deposition, and even on the witness stand.

Simple. Straightforward. Not dangerous at all.

"Physicians and staff only have access to the patient records they need for treatment," she says. "If it's not your patient or your consult, you don't see any identifying information. Names, socials …" her voice trails off, and then she names a famous pop singer. "She actually gave birth at our hospital a few years back and I didn't know until afterwards. Patient confidentiality is very important. The hospital is very careful. And the system works."

"The system works," their female captor repeats, sounding almost amused. "So what you're saying is … you _don't_ know why your husband planned to spend the night at the hospital tonight."

Addison blinks. "He was working," she says faintly.

…

Neither of their captors says a word, but there's a clear handoff when the female intruder returns; the shorter male intruder leaves.

Derek has to force himself to look at her, the predatory way her gaze travels around the bedroom. He has limited vision; he's cuffed to the wrought-iron bar on the inside of the en suite door, and he hasn't been able to make out a sound from downstairs.

 _If we survive this, I'm getting rid of every piece of metal in the house._

The woman takes an eerily silent step toward him.

"The safe," he offers weakly.

She studies him for a moment. "Let me be clear. I don't have a lot of patience right now," she says smoothly. "You lie to me … she dies."

Derek swallows hard, then nods.

"Good. So, tell me. Will I find what I'm looking for in the safe?"

He can't tear his eyes away from her icy gaze.

"And please, doctor, do us both a favor and don't pretend you don't know how little interest we have in your … fortune."

"No," he whispers, "you won't find what you're looking for."

She regards him for another moment, then swings an arm sharply across the wardrobe to reveal the safe.

"Code?"

Derek blinks.

"Trust, but verify," she recites, sounding almost amused. " _Code._ "

"1-2-2-4-9-3-1," he recites woodenly.

Her fingers are fast, and the metal door swings open with traitorous ease.

It doesn't take her more than a moment to see that he wasn't lying.

"So you don't bring your work home then … doctor."

"Confidentiality," he begins hesitantly.

"Spare me the compliance speech." She takes a few steps toward him. "You didn't tell her, then."

"I'm obligated not to share patient identifying information with anyone outside the treatment sphere," Derek says, exhaustion creeping into his voice.

His head is starting to buzz. He wasn't hit very hard – as a doctor, he knows this, and he's not _worried_ about it, but the combination of the blows to his face, the shallow breaths he's trying not to take based on the pain in his torso is making him feel a bit dizzy.

"So that's a no." The female intruder studies his face. "And how about tonight? Still didn't tell her anything?"

His stomach twists with guilt. "They didn't say – they wouldn't tell us what they wanted."

"And Nancy Drew down there couldn't possibly figure it out herself, because _you_ never told her."

He doesn't speak.

"You just … what's that they say … _hung her out to dry._ "

He can't respond; his heart is thumping his aching ribs.

 _Addie, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry._

"Tell me, Dr. Shepherd … _Derek_ … what else haven't you told your wife?"

…

Back in the kitchen, alone with the shorter intruder now, Addison sips on the water bottle he offers her while listening anxiously for sounds from upstairs.

Half of her wants to throw the water bottle back at his masked face – she's sat through enough wartime documentaries with Derek to know that relying on her captors can't deliver anything good – but she's also thirsty, and exhausted, and the water feels comforting on her parched throat.

When she looks up the intruder is staring at her.

"What?" The insolent tone slips out before she can stop herself, and she braces for his response, but he actually looks somewhat amused.

"You're not so easy to rattle, are you."

Does he sound … impressed?

She shrugs.

"You want some advice?" he asks.

Does she? She doesn't respond.

"Shut up," he says. Not viciously, not as an order – though he says it urgently. "That's the advice. Just _shut up_ ," he repeats.

Then he turns around, and she sees his gaze drift toward the framed newspaper clipping on the wall. If only she could climb inside the frame, grab that young couple – yes, _young_ , even if it was only a couple of years ago, because god knows they've aged decades tonight alone – and warn them.

She wants to ask a question. She wants to ask so many questions, but the most pressing one starts to slip out between her lips first.

"Why are you here?"

He shakes his head. "What did I _just_ say?"

"Please," she says urgently. "Just tell me why –"

"Surprise."

She stops talking immediately when the cold voice interrupts. The female intruder is standing in the doorway – she moves so silently, it makes Addison shudder to think where she could have been – and then behind her, the taller intruder shoves Derek forward and relief floods her to see his face.

"Couples need to make time for each other in a long marriage," the female intruder muses. "Don't you think?"

She lifts her chin at the smaller intruder, who nods, Addison's head swinging between them to try to work out their wordless communication.

Addison doesn't have to wait long; she's hoisted to her feet and escorted out of the kitchen to the foyer. He's not particularly rough, but not gentle either, as if she's just an object that has to be moved. A few metal clicks and one of her wrists is attached to the banister, the other free.

Her heart thumps. It's the same position as – sure enough, with a surge of hope she sees they're handcuffing Derek to the banister the same way they did before. Both his wrists are locked between wood and metal but one of hers is free.

And then the intruders are gone without a single word.

Addison is silent too, afraid to say anything until she hears the men's footfalls disappear.

Then she turns to her husband desperately, her free hand touching whatever she can of him.

"They hurt you," she whispers, "are you all right? Derek?" She runs her fingers along his bruised cheekbone.

He's staring at her; there's fear in his eyes. "You changed," he whispers.

For one moment she's puzzled. _You changed too,_ _Derek_ , but then she realized what he means.

"Yeah," she gives a sort of half-laugh that keeps her from crying, looking down at her jarringly dressy clothes, and then she hastens to reassure him. "It's okay. Derek, it's okay, they didn't … they didn't do anything."

She inches closer to him, careful of the metal and wood separating them, and lets her fingers slide into his hair. Her eyes close for a moment, half a moment of comfort, and then she remembers reality.

"I can't figure out why they're here," she whispers. "I just can't figure out what they want."

Derek swallows hard – she sees the movement of his adam's apple, she knows the shape of his throat that well and just the thought of it brings her close to tears again. He doesn't speak for a moment, and then when he does it's just one word.

"Mark…." His voice trails off.

The hope in his eyes is breaking her heart. He wants to know if Mark realized something was wrong.

She shakes her head, feeling like a failure. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"No, Addie, don't, that's not…" she hears a scraping sound that means he's instinctually trying to move his arms to touch her, to hold her … but he can't.

"Wait. You couldn't hear us? When Mark was here?"

Derek shakes his head.

She supposes they were speaking quietly, and Derek was in the kitchen. And the walls are thick, solid and old, but that means …

Well, she's not sure what it means. Her head is _thick_ , and heavy. She's lived a thousand years since she opened the door to this nightmare.

And she has no idea why they're allowed this time alone, but she feels quite certain she can't waste it.

"Derek," she whispers. "They were asking me about patients. About … confidentiality, files."

Something flickers in his eyes.

Fear?

"Did they ask you about that, too?"

"Playtime's over," a cold voice interrupts.

Right before Addison looks up at the female intruder's angular face, she sees Derek's lips form two words he doesn't speak out loud:

 _I'm sorry._

"Derek!" But she can't reach him, there are hands separating them now.

She can't touch him. She can't talk to him.

She turns on the female intruder, who's watching them with an infuriating smirk.

"What do you _want_? Is this just a game to you?"

Sudden courage fills her – or is it anger? – whatever it is, it's strong enough to drown the fear.

The female intruder is silent for a moment.

Addison has the feeling she should stop, that she's walking into danger – but _come on, Addie, you've been in danger from the moment you opened the door, why stop now?_

So she doesn't stop.

"Why are you asking about confidentiality? Why do you care about patient files?"

The intruder just raises an eyebrow, silent.

"What do you want?" She hears her voice rise. "Just tell us! Is it something about the hospital? Is it a –"

" _Addie_ ," it's Derek who cuts her off. "Addie, stop."

She draws a shaking breath, trying to get control of herself, but rage is coursing through her now. How much longer do they have to wait to know why their lives have been turned upside down like this?

Her lips part, but before she can speak the female intruder holds up a gloved hand.

"So you aren't going to take your husband's advice," she says, smirking, her eyes traveling the length of Addison. "Not very good at taking orders at all?"

She doesn't answer but she sees Derek shaking his head at her, and she sees desperation in his eyes. She speaks no more words, but the rebellion must show in her eyes because the female intruder arches an eyebrow.

"We'll just have to find something to help you listen, then, won't we," she says smoothly.

Addison takes an automatic step back and hits the solid wall of the smaller intruder's body. "Shut _up_ ," he hisses in her ear. One of his leather-clad arms is locked across her chest and she can feel his weapon against her hip.

The female intruder hasn't moved closer; she just stands there with a cool, appraising gaze. Then her eyes move to the intruder holding Addison, her sharp jaw angling toward the bigger one holder Derek, and then back again. She props one hand on a narrow hip.

"Gentlemen," she drawls in that oozing voice, "despite some evidence to the contrary, I think you've actually been spoiling them."

"No, we- "

She just keeps speaking over him. "Too gentle a hand won't do. I've noticed that they seem to be underestimating the … seriousness of the situation."

Now she takes a step forward; fast and silent, she approaches Addison, who tries as hard as she can not to visibly flinch.

One cold gloved hand grasps her face; the thumb of the other hand swipes roughly across her bruised cheek. She can't help gasping.

The intruder pulls back, looking at the makeup on her hand. "A paint job can't hide everything, can it? Some cover-ups … don't work." Her voice lingers on the word _cover-ups._

The intruder's words leave Addison as cold as the dark eyes boring into hers. She's afraid to move her gaze but she can feel Derek watching her; guilt courses through her aching body.

 _What have I done?_

…

Derek is silent, frozen, watching the female intruder circling his wife like prey. Addison can't seem to help standing up for herself and he loves her for it even as he desperately wants her to stop. The air around them is prickling with danger, it reeks of it.

Addison's question is haunting him. _What could they want?_

The female intruder is still studying Addison. "Any more questions?" she asks coldly.

With some of the makeup rubbed off the side of her face, Derek can see the growing bruise where she was backhanded. It fills him with rage, twisting his stomach more than when his own face was struck.

 _What have I done?_

"I'm speaking to you," the female intruder is saying now, her voice smoothly mocking. "What happened to those _famous_ manners?" She pauses her predatory circling right in front of Addison, extends a gloved finger, and with excruciating slowness tilts her chin up so she can't help meeting her eyes.

"Do you. Have. Any more. Questions." She bites off each cold word with precise enunciation.

"No," Addison whispers. "No more questions."

"Good."

She releases her grip on Addison.

Derek breathes a sigh of relief.

Then, quick as a cat, she's whipped out her pistol and she's holding it inches from his wife's face.

"No!" Derek struggles against the arms holding him, no longer frozen, even cuffed and with physics against him, pure animal fear driving his windpipe against the point of an obviously practiced elbow.

Only the need to stay conscious stops his struggling. He forces himself to be still even as terror blurs his vision.

Addison is trembling visibly but she doesn't say anything. Her face is white under the garish makeup; her body rigid and trapped in the arms of the intruder.

"Please," Derek tries, his voice cracking from suddenly bone-dry lips. "Please. We'll do whatever you want."

The female intruder studies Derek for a moment. "Oh, you will? Is that a promise?"

"Yes," Derek says desperately, " _yes,_ " even as he feels like he's walking into a trap.

The female intruder's mouth twists into something – is it a smile? – whatever it is, it's disturbing. Then she turns back to Addison.

And pulls the trigger.

* * *

 _To be continued._ Those of you who were concerned not enough has happened yet, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please review and I will get chapter 11 up posthaste ... it's a promise. Thank you so much!


	11. Friday, 1:32 am

**A/N: Thank you so much for the great reviews on Chapter 10. I really wanted to update faster and I apologize that I couldn't - but here's a nice long chapter that I hope makes up for it.**

* * *

 _friday, 1:32 a.m._

* * *

It's loud.

 _God, it's loud._

Even with the silencer, it's loud.

It's a muffled scream piercing his eardrums and stealing the breath from his throat. When his vision snaps back to clear, what he sees turns his stomach to liquid.

Where his wife stood, held prisoner by one of their captors, is nothing but empty space.

On the ground, both Addison and the man who was holding her lie motionless in a tangle of limbs. The sticky scent of blood is thick in the air. In his nostrils, now.

Blood, smoke ... and a smell he associates with impending death.

In that one terrifying moment, his own heart stops. He's frozen.

It's because of that _smell_ , wet pennies, the stark ammoniac sting of urine.

Not the bodily fluids in a hospital, not the death there either.

The other kind.

Fear, oozing from every pore.

 _Don't move. Stay still. You have to be quiet, so quiet, you have to keep Amy quiet._

He can't breathe, can't see, but he can _feel_ the dizzy nauseating twenty-five-year-old memory. Watching the life ooze out of him.

 _Shot to the head, up close._

Slower than he thought it would be. Thick and chugging. The sounds his father used to make when he played trains with them on the living room floor.

 _Get those kids out of here._ He didn't feel like a kid, not after that day.

 _They saw it?_ They did.

 _God, I hope not._ But God was nowhere in that store.

It filled up, eventually, blue suits and voices that were loud and angry until someone saw them and then they were soft and concerned.

 _You with me, sonny? I want you take a deep breath. Okay. Now you're gonna go with Officer Jim, and your little sister – no, it's okay, you can let go. You did good, kid, but you can let go of her now. Just give her to me and we'll – there you go, sweetheart, Officer Lee is going to take good care of you until we find your mom._

He didn't tell Addison what happened to his father until they'd been dating for three years. He said _gone_ , not killed. _Passed away_ , not murdered. _Died,_ not ripped apart in front of his children. _No longer with us_ , that's what they would say, not _he bled out in front of us before I had ever heard the term "bled out" and the first time I did my god did I recognize it and after class when I threw up, remembering, I told everyone it was the cheap beer at Donegan's that did it._

He didn't tell her what happened for three years but when he did, choked the words out into the soft fabrics that covered her soft body, she cried too. _I can't imagine that,_ she whispered into his hair, and he said, _I don't want you to try._

No one should imagine it.

No one should _see_ it except everything happens so fast, a millisecond, a blink of an eye, a shattering of a skull and he's suddenly breathing again.

Suddenly, he's alive.

The oxygen in his lungs blows adrenaline through his veins and he's fighting harder than he ever has in his life.

He doesn't care about the gun in his side, about the shouting, the threats, because he's not thirteen anymore and the grief is at bay now, held in the arms of powerful, all-encompassing rage. He's going to kill them or die trying and whatever they planned to do, whatever sick agenda accompanied tonight's torment, will be lost to history anyway.

He screams this, or something like this, but then his world shifts again.

Because Addison is moving, she's pulling away from the intruder who was holding her, struggling against the arm that's still around her.

 _Addie._

He doesn't understand until he sees the way she's fighting the arm; he's not holding her anymore, he's just … _there_ , heavy and limp with death. The blood seeping onto the floor, the stickiness and bits of matter in Addison's hair, it's not hers.

 _It's not hers._

His body shakes so badly that he'd be on the floor if not for the rough arm shoving him back against the wall.

 _She's not dead._

And then she's more than _not dead_ , she's _alive_ , coming out of whatever shock happened when she hit the floor with her wounded captor.

She's staggering to a crouch, she's seeing the blood and worse, and Addie who has been so stoic this whole night, who has always been braver than he is, is suddenly choking on a cry of _no_.

He calls her name but the female captor speaks over him; her voice is quiet but laced with disgust. "Get up and stop making a fool of yourself," she says coldly.

But Addison hysterical, trying to save the dying man sprawled on their floor. Even with the mask on his face Derek can see the way his skull has caved in, the blood, the fluids that have escaped his open body cavities.

 _It's too late._

Addison can't or won't see that; one of the male intruders pulls her to her feet and she falls back to her knees, feeling for a pulse. He sees her hands skim the captor's mortally wounded skull, head to his chest for breath sounds.

"I said, _get up._ "

And then Addison finds her voice.

..

"Please, you have to give me a chance! You have to give me a chance to help him!"

"Didn't you hear her? Get the fuck up."

It's the new intruder, the male she doesn't know, his essence and the bulk of him different from the others. And he curses. He's cruder or they're losing control of the situation, and she has no idea which is worse.

She doesn't know why, just that she needs to try to help the smaller intruder, the one spread out and leaking his waning life onto her hardwood floors.

"Please just let me look. He could be –"

Impatient, annoyed, a rough hand grabs her arm and drags her to her feet.

"He's _dead_. You think she shoots to wound? Jesus Christ. He's worm food. Just get away from him."

Her ears are still ringing from the close call, from the way it felt to see the cold metal and then smell the smoke, to fall heavily against the wet-cement form of a person halfway between life and death. His arm was so heavy.

 _Derek_.

He's staring white faced at her, but she knows she must look worse. There's an arm at his throat, stark fear in his eyes, and something else.

Relief?

Automatically she reaches for him and the captor holding her arms yanks her back.

The woman is speaking now, giving cold orders.

"You, get Lawrence to rid of … _this._ " She gestures with a pointed-toe boot at the dead man on the floor. The intruder holding Derek nods.

"And you." She turns to Derek, then back to Addison, as if to make sure both are clear who she means. "You're coming with me."

"Boss," one of the men says quietly. "Should I …"

"Not necessary, thank you. I don't think he'll be foolish enough to make trouble. Will you … Dr. Shepherd?"

Derek seems to be trying to show his agreement.

"Good." She sounds satisfied. "Because next time, the blood in your wife's pretty hair will be her own." She glances at Addison with disgust, then at the taller intruder who's been there since the beginning. "Get her cleaned up."

 _No._

She wants desperately to stay with Derek but her mouth feels swollen and huge, words are too hard to form.

She's shuddering as she's marched upstairs – he's not particularly rough but he's not gentle either, and she can't quite figure out how to string words together.

"Please, can you – can't you – "

"Shut up," he says, not sounding particularly angry, just annoyed. He shoves her ahead of him into one of the guest bathrooms on the second floor – she has a glimpse of the inlaid ivory tiles she selected with Savvy at her side –

No one died underneath her that day.

 _He was trying to tell me something._

Her captor cuffs her to the towel rack, pushing her to sit on the closed toilet lid.

"She killed him," Addison whispers, and then she can't stop crying again.

"Jesus." The taller intruder, nasal from his own face injury, still manages to sound disgusted. "Would you stop sniveling? You didn't even know him." He pauses. "And you don't know what he was hoping to do to you if he pulled off this mission. You're gonna cry over a piece of filth like that?"

She wipes the back of her free hand across her eyes, then pauses at the blood staining her skin.

"It's my fault," she whispers. "I pushed her, I wasn't listening – "

"Oh, for Christ's sake." With one movement he yanks the linen shower curtain off the pewter rings. "Still think the whole world revolves around you? Grow up. And _shut_ up."

She tries to stop crying.

"Life is cheap, sweetheart."

 _Not to me it isn't._

…

They're alone now.

The female captor, stalking the floors like a leopard, points to one of the couches in the living room.

"Sit down."

He tries, but his legs don't work. They haven't stopped shaking since the moment Addison dropped out of his eyeline.

A hand pushes his aching chest and then he's seated.

She paces in front of him a few more times.

"Pull yourself together, Dr. Shepherd," she says finally, silkily. "You're a big boy now."

Her cold dark eyes leave no mistake about her meaning.

"Who the hell _are_ you?" he whispers.

"It doesn't matter." Her silky voice disgusts him. "Just like you don't matter."

"What matters, then?" He shouldn't challenge her; she doesn't seem bothered.

"The mission," she says simply. "The mission matters."

"The – what?" His shaking feet drum the floor. No sounds drift down the stairs. "Where's my wife? Where did he take her?"

"She'll be fine."

That doesn't answer his question.

"…as long as she keeps her mouth shut. And she will, if that little lesson took. Sometimes a hard lesson is necessary, don't you think? To make sure one remembers how important it is to stay focused. To … go the distance."

He doesn't understand her words and he doesn't want to.

"And I know you won't give me any trouble. Will you?" Her voice oozes a saccharine sort of threat that makes him feel ill. "You did say you'd do _whatever I want_ , didn't you?"

"I want to see my wife."

"I'm sure she wants to see you too. And yet … your wants don't matter right now," she says calmly. "We have very little time. I see my men haven't made that clear. But surely you're intelligent enough to catch on by now?"

He's not sure what to say.

"Everyone is replaceable, Dr. Shepherd … even you." She pauses. "Your wife informed me that you would never deign to share information about a patient outside the _treatment sphere._ "

Warily, Derek nods.

"I see." She smiles at him almost pleasantly, but her dark eyes are cold as ice as her fingers fondle the exposed hilt of her little silver weapon. "You've been admirably circumspect, haven't you? All this time. But I think your exclusive treatment sphere is in need of some new … blood."

She produces a folder that makes his eyes widen.

"Let's review your treatment plan, for a start."

…

As steam fills the bathroom, she focuses on breathing.

 _That woman killed one of her own men just to show us she could._

Good air in, bad air out.

But is there any good air left in the brownstone?

 _We're in even more danger than I thought._

"Get in," orders the taller intruder –

 _but he's not taller, because the shorter intruder is gone_.

She leans away from him, toward the wall. "Why?"

"Because you stink," he says shortly, "and I don't want to smell you."

He releases her wrist so she can undress herself, at least, pulling off the incongruously dressy, uncomfortable clothes that are now stained with blood and …

She won't think about it. _Fluids, it's just fluids, you're a surgeon, for crying out loud._

She's a surgeon and she's seen death up close more times than she can count, and she's seen the aftermath of violence plenty of times in the ER – but she's never been that close

 _Inches, or was it centimeters?_

From the violent end of a life.

 _He was trying to help us._

But was he?

 _Shut up,_ that's what he told her. It was hardly advice, more like taunting.

Her captor snaps the cuff on one wrist and hooks the other end to the shower curtain rod. "There. Plenty of room."

"Can you at least close the curtain?"

"I don't think you've earned that level of trust."

She tries to cover herself as best she can and he snorts.

"Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I'm not that hard up. Haven't you ever heard of the internet?"

He doesn't look particularly interested as she does her best to wash blood and other matter from her hair and body.

She doesn't have full movement, her wrist feels chafed and her upper arm is aching badly, but she manages. He uncuffs her wrist, letting her dry herself with one of the fluffy white towels she's always kept stacked on the wicker rack.

With both wrists free, even if her aching arm is hard to move, she manages to wrap herself in the towel as modestly as she can.

A gush of cold air raises gooseflesh when he opens the bathroom door. He pushes her ahead of him down the drafty hall; she clings to the towel as she tries to stay out of arms' reach.

 _Where is he_ –

She freezes in the doorway of her bedroom and he has to push her into the room.

He glances at her expression and then snickers rudely. "Jesus, you really have a one track mind."

He walks past her and grabs the crumpled t-shirt stripped off of her what feels like hours ago.

"Here. Put that on."

He doesn't have to ask twice.

She grabs the comforting fabric – it's dry now but it has a lingering odor. Sweat, fear? The laundry detergent Rosa uses? At least it's familiar, and she pulls it over her head without moving the towel like she used to do as a teenaged lifeguard, before internship cured her of any lingering modesty.

He tosses her a pair of panties and she pulls them on – herself – with no small measure of gratitude.

"Can I…" Shivering a little, she points toward the other pile of material on the ground, her abandoned sweatpants.

He shakes his head, smirking. "You're fine."

She takes a step back when he reaches for her; he makes a frustrated, wordless sound, and cuffs her wrists together with just a shade more force than necessary.

"Move, princess."

…

She's cold, inside and out, her wet hair turning the back of the t-shirt heavy, as she descends the stairs.

A loud gong announces her arrival – but no, it's just the grandfather clock.

There's the second gong.

 _Two o'clock._

She shudders.

Derek looks worse than she's seen him since their ordeal began. The female captor is prowling near him and his face is drained of color, the dark red bruising standing out even more, and she could swear he's even faintly _green._

But he's alive and that makes him beautiful; she forces back tears that will just make him worry – he hasn't missed the state of her dress – and just hopes desperately she'll be able to sit next to him.

The intruder pushes her onto the other side of the couch. She can't touch him but she can sense his presence and the relief is almost enough to let her breathe again.

If only her legs would stop shaking.

"Can't you see she's freezing?" Derek croaks. "Give her something to wear."

"Derek, it's okay," she whispers.

When the female captor makes a move toward her she presses herself back into the couch, _don't try to help, don't you see, we're only making things worse._

But all she does is toss a cashmere blanket from the wooden chest in Addison's direction.

"Now," she says calmly, "are we ready for a little marriage counseling?"

Addison exchanges a confused glance with Derek.

"We'll start simply. Shall we? With a little game."

She doesn't wait for either of them to agree, just resumes pacing in front of them, then pauses, standing directly between and studying them coolly.

"Secrets are toxic for a marriage. Wouldn't you say? Secrets can _kill_ … a relationship." Her voice lingers on the words like she enjoys them. "So, Dr. Shepherd." She turns to Derek, stroking the small silver pistol in her hand.

"Truth or dare?"

* * *

 _To be continued ... with both truth and dare. Next chapter, those of you who've been waiting to hear more about Derek's mysterious patient will want to stay tuned. I love hearing what you think and am so grateful for your reviews. Please let me know what you think, and I'll do my best to get Chapter 12 up ASAP!_


	12. Friday, 2:01 am

_**A/N: Remember this story? Yeah, me too. I was on a roll with it. Well ... I'm ready to roll again. Here's a nice chunk of a chapter to get it moving. Chapter 13 is close to finished, so you won't have to wait another month for sure.** **Things are happening here, and I hope you enjoy this belated update.**_

* * *

 _friday,_ _2:01 a.m._

* * *

"I'll choose for you, shall I?" Their captor pauses as if she's weighing options in her mind, the corner of her mouth quirking. "I know. I'll choose … truth."

She looks right at Addison when she says it, in a way that makes her stomach clench.

 _She doesn't know anything. She's screwing with our heads._

Her heart thumps. The blanket that was tossed onto her legs is thankfully warming but her nerves are so on edge that she could swear she feels every individual fiber poking her flesh. Under her bare thighs the fabric of the couch is unrecognizably aggressive, rough.

 _This is my home._

Fear swirls in the air in the living room that should have been theirs, their captor stalking the mantel, swift soft movements like a cat. Addison doesn't know where to look; everywhere feels like a threat, from the sterling framed wedding picture to the orchid that's somehow still alive on the antique occasional table. In the dim light the deep pink petals look red, like blood.

"Truth," their captor repeats, managing to drag out the single syllable in her slippery voice. "Dr. Shepherd … would you please tell your wife why you planned to spend the night at the hospital tonight?"

Addison watches her husband's face. He's pale underneath the red bruising from where he was struck; his eyes look exhausted, and more. Haunted.

"For work," he says. "I was working."

Their captor raises her eyebrows. "That won't do, I'm afraid, Dr. Shepherd. The game is _Truth_ or Dare. Not Obfuscation or Dare."

Derek is silent.

"Don't tell me you need more convincing."

"Derek, please, just tell me," Addison cuts in anxiously, afraid her husband is going to try to protect his patient – _Derek always tries to protect his patients_ – at the cost of his own safety.

He must hear the desperation in her voice because he starts talking, his voice rough. "I was in a coordination of care meeting until nine."

"For a patient," their captor helps him. "Which patient, Dr. Shepherd? _Dr. Shepherd._ "

Derek's breath sounds pained. Her wrists are bound, as are his; she has no way to support him other than to try to meet his eye but his own eyes are focused on his cuffed wrists.

"Franklin Schaff," he says after a long moment.

"Franklin Schaff," their female captor repeats. She's obviously not surprised.

Addison recognizes the name, but it takes her a moment to connect the dots; she's exhausted, adrenaline leaving her shaky and a little blurred. She knows him, doesn't she? Banking. Something to do with banking. It's one of the big investment banks, and for a moment she thinks – no, it's not him.

"Stalwart Frye," Addison says slowly. "He's, uh, the CEO."

"Chairman and CEO," their female captor says. "Very good. Or should I say chairman, CEO, and your husband's patient."

Addison glances at Derek, who doesn't seem able to meet her eye.

"So he … needs surgery," Addison prompts, the tension in the air keeping her speaking. Their captor looms over them. "Is it, uh, is it serious?"

"Depends on who you ask," the woman says. "Just don't ask any investors. They haven't been told."

Addison glances in Derek's direction.

"Don't you read anything other than _Gray's Anatomy_ and _JAMA_?" the woman asks coldly.

"Yes," Addison manages when it's clear she's waiting for an answer.

"And yet you didn't read about in the papers, did you?" their captor asks, looking at Derek. "No disclosure. None," she pronounces with some level of disgust.

"I'm a surgeon, not the SEC," Derek snaps, apparently finding his voice. "That's not my business."

Addison flinches instinctively, waiting for retaliation, but all their captor does stare with those cold reptilian eyes.

"Tell _her_ , not me," their captor orders after a moment, gesturing with her sharp chin toward Addison.

"Derek." Addison tries to get his attention. She's worried, at his pallor and the determination in his eyes. "Tell me," she urges.

"He's, uh …"

But his voice trails off.

She hears the sound of a weapon cocking. _Damn it._

"Derek," she whispers. "Look at me. Look at me," she repeats, and he drags his gaze away from their captor.

She forces a reassuring smile. "Tell me about your patient," she says gently. "Just me. Derek," she says more urgently, "tell me."

She encourages him with her eyes and sees his lips part to respond to her.

They're dry, chapped – he needs water. But he starts speaking before she can request it on his behalf.

"Aneurysm," he says softly, his voice cracked. "A. comm."

"How big?"

"Two point five."

"Two point five," she repeats. "And you're clipping it?"

He shakes his head. "Endovascular coiling."

She considers this. "There's been a delta?"

"Not since diagnosis."

For a merciful moment they're wrapped in medicine, their shared language of fifteen – no, sixteen – years.

"That's a conservative approach at that size," she says slowly. "Without delta I'd expect – but if the aneurysm is symptomatic…."

"It's asymptomatic," Derek says quietly.

"Oh. Then how did you – "

"Routine MRI." Derek pauses. "He gets preventative and maintenance scans every three months."

"For a preexisting condition?"

"No," the female captor says coolly, her slippery voice interrupting their marital-medical shorthand and reminding them where they are. "Not for a preexisting condition. Just because he's _that_ valuable. You see, it's all a cost-benefit analysis."

"What is?" Addison asks hesitantly.

"What _isn't_?" Their female captor smiles in an unpleasant way. A Cheshire cat – someone waiting to strike. "Everything is a cost-benefit analysis. Go on, Dr. Shepherd."

Her eyes look cold when Derek doesn't continue speaking; Addison hastens to prompt him.

"So you've been preparing him for surgery," she starts.

"Monitoring him," Derek says woodenly. "It was easier to – "

" – lie," their captor says smoothly, interrupting him. "It was easier to lie. For you." She looks from Derek to Addison. "For Schaff. For most people. You see the problem, though. _Truth_ … is important."

She stares at Addison for a moment, and Addison finds herself shrinking under the cold, knowing gaze.

 _But what is it that she knows?_

"Lies … _kill_ ," their captor enunciates. She's back to delivering in that Shakespearean monologue way that leaves Addison not sure whether to laugh or cry.

 _How is this our life? How can this be real?_

"When people _lie_ … people _die_."

Her words are cold.

"What's so unfortunate, really, doctors … is that it's often not the same people."

Addison exhales with some effort; she can still feel the weight of the body on top of her – the one that collapses under his boss's bullet, pinning her to the floor of the foyer. Heavier in death.

For just a moment she calculates the risk of reaching out for Derek's hand with her own cuffed ones. She thinks it might be different if she could touch him, if they could still be here _together_ , not separately captive on the same couch.

…

Derek sees her fingers flicker on her lap. He sees because he's watching, and because he knows what it means, and although he'd give anything to touch her he's praying she doesn't try it. _Read my mind,_ he wills her.

He regrets his loss of control, his desperation, when he thought it was Addison felled by the bullet. Their captors saw this, and he has no doubt they'll exploit it.

His heart is thumping, his nerves fraying under the fear for their lives, the exhaustion, the dull realization that this is his fault.

He's the one who said yes.

 _Shepherd, this is an honor._

He could have said no.

 _Shepherd, you'll need to be discreet._

He's always discreet.

 _Franklin Schaff – please, call me Frank – is smaller than Derek expected. He's seen him in black and white newsprint or flashing across the ten o'clock news but hasn't met him before. His wealth, his notorious gift for financial strategy, his leadership – he's one of the most powerful men in New York – in the world, really – but it's all closed into a compact little body. Fragile but resilient, like all patients. You'll have to talk to the wife too, he's told. She calls the shots; she's worried. Of course, he says, whatever they need to feel comfortable. They don't come to his satellite office or to the hospital. He goes to them, ferried in a black car with tinted windows, ushered through the back of a Park Avenue monolith, into an elevator that opens directly into an apartment._

"Your pre-op appointment, Dr. Shepherd?"

 _Dr. Shepherd, we can't tell you how much we appreciate your seeing us. That's what Schaff's wife of – is it twenty-five years? – tells him nervously, making a point of pouring his coffee herself. With the regulation upper east side blowout but a face friendlier than it is chiseled. Frankie would prefer go to the free clinic, his wife teases, and Derek remembers what he's read about Schaff, his rise from a boyhood in one of the city's hardscrabble housing projects to gifted programs in public school all the way to the Ivy League. Down to earth, that's him, favoring off-the-rack suits when his peer CEOs are head to toe bespoke, joking about how he hates having a driver but security, always security. The Q rating goes with the paycheck, the stock options, the power. The perils of the finance world, the necessities when you run a global investment company._

"It's, uh, tomorrow morning," he admits.

 _How is a junior investment banker different from a medical resident? Schaff asks him this during his first visit, and then smiles before he can answer it. My daughter would call that a dad joke, he tells Derek, and she's probably right. Go on, answer if you can. Derek just shakes his head, not sure. They both work twenty-four-seven, Schaff tells him, but only one of them is actually saving lives. He pauses for comedic effect. Not that the medical residents don't have an important job too, he finishes with a chuckle. He has a boyish grin under his receding hairline, and Derek gets a glimpse of the youngster whose memory Schaff drops into interviews, humbly, the one who played stickball and climbed the back of the bleachers to see the Yankees play. That's a good one, Derek tells him. Don't be a yes man, now, Dr. Shepherd, Schaff scolds, I have enough of those._

"Tomorrow morning," their captor repeats. "And you planned to sleep at the hospital to avoid questions about why you were returning." She pauses. "Clever."

 _Don't worry, Mrs. Schaff – sorry, Dolores – I promise he's in good hands._

"Clever," she repeats.

 _I promise._

He stares at Addison's profile next to him; he's tracing it – he already has it memorized – he can see the infinitesimal movement of her upper lip, all that betrays emotion. His heart is beating in patterns of two. It's beating for both of them. _I'm sorry,_ that's the rhythm.

 _Sorry, Addie._

…

She's stiff on the couch, gooseflesh under the cashmere blanket that's at least covering her legs, trying to put the pieces together.

A high-profile patient.

… with a low-risk condition.

A high-security surgery.

Before she can speak, the air in front of her changes – it's the taller male intruder, and he's grabbing Derek off the couch.

 _No!_

"What are you doing?" Addison's voice rises with panic, her wrists crashing into unforgiving metal as she struggles to free herself.

"It's okay, Addie, don't," Derek is muttering to her, but it's not okay because his jaw is clenched with pain, she can hear it, when he's yanked into submission.

She's off the couch too, before she can stop herself, and her shoulder is grabbed, wrenched, and she cries out with pain.

"Shut up. Shut _up_ ," the man is whispering in her ear – he's new, the New One to her, and his grip is like iron.

Her breath is coming in high pitched gasps but she stops speaking, presses her lips together so there's only a desperate whinny of a sound.

Derek is twisting around, he's meeting her eyes, and she's not sure which one of them is trying to reassure the other.

Her scream is silent when they force him up the stairs, and then she's limp in the rough grip of the man holding her.

"Let her go," their female captor says, her voice calm, and Addison is thrust with little ceremony onto the couch. She tries for a moment to manipulate her cuffed hands enough to rub her sore shoulder but she can't, so she just sits there, her muscle throbbing in tempo with her heartbeat.

"Now, then," their captor says coolly. "There's no need to be uncivilized."

 _Uncivilized._ Addison shudders.

"We're just going to talk … woman to woman."

Addison tries to force a full breath into her lungs. _Stay conscious. Stay alert. You still have no idea what's coming,_ she warns herself.

"He may be a neurosurgeon, but you're the real brains of this operation, wouldn't you say?"

Addison doesn't respond, forcing her chin to stay level.

"I asked you a question," their captor says coldly.

"I – I don't know," Addison stammers, not even sure what the question was beyond a taunt.

"If you want something done _right_ , you go to the source. Wouldn't you say?"

"Um … yes."

"Right to the head of the snake, and cut it off." One of their captor's surprisingly delicate hands swipes through the air. She stops herself, looking almost amused. "That's a figure of speech, of course."

There's a faint thump from above them and Addison's head swings toward the staircase.

"Where's my husband? What is he doing with him?"

She can't stop either the question or the trembling in her voice, and she braces herself for the reaction.

"Your husband is fine. Your husband needs to rest," their captor says simply. "It's late. And it's your turn in the … chair now, Dr. Shepherd." She pauses. "You took his name," she says, a hint of mocking in her voice.

 _You can hyphenate, Addie, I swear I won't be offended._

 _Why would I do that? I mean, unless you're going to too._

 _Derek Montgomery-Shepherd! What do you think?_

 _They laugh at the thought, but – I want to have the same name as you, Addison tells him patiently, that's the whole point, and his kisses are warm and full of promise, they're side by side at the city clerk's office. This is it, he says, and she says: I'm sure. I'm absolutely sure. He calls her Dr. Shepherd all the way back uptown on the train, he whispers it to her in bed that night – it's true spring now, windows thrown open to the gulps of dense city air. His lips against her neck, her throat, speaking their shared name into her flesh._

 _Dr. Shepherd._

"I took his name," she echoes.

"Mm. An interesting choice. But now he's … resting, and it's your turn in the chair. You see, Mr. Schaff may be your husband's patient, but I don't want you to think you're not … _involved_ here. It's so difficult, being a woman, isn't it? The assumptions people make … being shunted to the side … "

Addison is quiet, not daring to breathe.

"But we know who _really_ makes the decisions. Who's really in charge."

Of course she mentioned snakes … and she feels now like she's in the company of a snake, one who is circling her, getting ready to strike.

"What do you want?" Addison asks hoarsely.

"What do I want? You know the answer to this."

"I do?"

"I _want_ to play a game," their captor says.

"This isn't a game." Her voice shakes.

"Maybe you're just not playing it right." Their captor stares at her for a long moment. "But you have another chance. You see, your husband did such a nice job with the _truth_ portion of the game. Really excellent. But now … it's time for a dare."

Addison swallows hard.

"That's … not how the game works," Addison says slowly. "It's truth _or_ dare."

Their female captor gives her another disconcerting smile. "Ah, but not the way _I_ play the game," she says.

Addison blinks, and she continues in that unnervingly silky voice:

"My game, Dr. Shepherd … my rules."

And suddenly, with dizzying horror, Addison realizes what they want.

* * *

 _To be continued. As soon as I can. Thoughts? Pretty please review and share them; I love knowing your reactions and predictions. Thank you so much! xo_


	13. Friday, 2:28 am

_**A/N: I am so sorry it took me so long to update this story. I appreciate all your reviews so much! I know I said this story would have quick updates, so in double apology, please accept (1) this chapter, which is extra long (as you deserve!) and (2) my writer's word that if you guys are still interested in this story I will get another chapter up by the weekend. I know it's been a while, so to reorient you if you don't want to re-read Chapter 12: the last chapter ended on Addison alone with the female boss, who was engaging her in a game of semi-truth or dare. Addison had just figured out what they want ...**_

 _ **One more note: I know the whole subject matter of this story is disturbing, so there's sort of a general content warning, but I'm reiterating it for this chapter.**_

* * *

 _friday, 2:28 a.m_

* * *

"What's happening down there?" Derek twists against the hands restraining him. "What is she doing?"

"Shut up," his captor says easily, shoving him up the last of the stairs to the second floor.

Then they're in the guest room, but it's changed – the furniture shoved against the wall with the exception of the brass-framed bed that's been pulled toward the center of the room.

Derek resists even though his shoulders are screaming for mercy. His mind is still swimming, trying to make sense of what their female captor was getting at downstairs.

 _Schaff … his company … investors … what does that have to do with me?_

When he tugs at his captors grip he gets a sharp yank in response.

"Trust me, this isn't the duty I begged for either," the intruder smirks, and then there's cold metal pressing into Derek's ribs.

He flinches, forces himself to stop pulling away.

The intruder looks him up and down briefly.

"Get on the bed."

"Why?"

His captor shoves the gun harder and Derek can't help gasping in pain. "That's why," the intruder says coolly, and Derek backs away until he's sitting on the edge of the bed.

"What –"

"Shut up." The clinking of the handcuffs is loud in the empty room and, faster than it seems possible, metal closes around his wrists, he hears the chain threaded through the headboard, and then his other wrist is captured too.

The intruder gives the chain a few test yanks.

And then, as if they're planning to chat, his captor sits down in the hard-backed chair that would usually be pushed into the small vanity in the corner.

Just … watching.

It's hardly the most frightening thing that's happened tonight. But that cold gaze on him, as equally cold metal chafes his wrists, leaves him shuddering anyway.

..

"No," Addison whispers.

" _No?"_ The female captor repeats mockingly. "I'm sorry, did I ask a question?"

Addison's heart is slamming her ribcage; the cold, sneering voice sounds like it's coming from very far away.

"You can't – he's not going to do it."

"He will if he values your life," the intruder says simply.

 _That's what I'm afraid of._

"Schaff is a patient," her captor recites coolly. "Patients assume risk. Patients _accept_ risk. Your husband disclosed the risk to his patient, didn't he?"

Addison blinks. "That's not – no, that's not the same thing."

"That depends on your perspective, doesn't it."

"If it's about money," Addison stammers, her voice shaking, "I can – let me make an offer. Please. No one has to get hurt."

"An offer?" Her captor laughs shortly. "You think your little trust fund means anything when the stakes are this high? Do you have _any_ idea how much money we're talking about?"

"I guess not," she admits.

Her mind is too busy racing.

 _Someone will find us. Someone will figure this out. They have to._

"Can I, um, can I ask a question?"

"You may."

Addison takes a deep, shaky breath. "Why are you telling me first?" she asks, wishing she could make her voice sound stronger than she feels.

"A good question." The female captor looks, for a moment, almost impressed. Then her expression is back to cold disdain. "Let me rephrase it: I'm telling you. I'm not telling him."

"You're not?" Addison is confused now. "How can he do what you want if you don't – "

" _You_ are going to tell him," her captor explains coolly.

"What?"

"When the time is right … you'll tell him."

"But – "

"Not yet," the female intruder clarifies, her voice sleek and unhurried. "Not until I say so, not a moment before, not if you value your lives."

Addison's stomach turns.

"Come now. Don't look so worried. It's not the first secret you've kept from your husband, is it?"

..

 _Where's Addison?_

He asks it in his own mind, mostly, but sometimes out loud. Leaving her shivering on the couch alone with their terrifying captor was painful. Now, lying on his back in this strange perversion of their guest room with his hands cuffed above his head, under the unnerving gaze of their captor, it's all he can think about.

"Where is she?" he asks again, daringly, but it seems the words were magical because suddenly his limited vision is filled with her achingly familiar face, her still-damp hair is brushing his numb arms as she leans over him.

Her scent fills his nostrils and relief slams into him like a rough ocean wave. "Are you okay?" His voice sounds broken to his own ears. "What happened down there?"

"Oh, Derek," she whispers, touching the metal cuff that's holding his wrists. Her hands trace down his restrained arms, looking pained at his captivity.

She leans further over him and he's immobilized.

"Want to wrestle?" He keeps his voice light, but he sees tears spring to her eyes.

"Derek … I'm so sorry," she whispers.

A tear splashes onto his face, hot and wet. It's hers. She's crying above him.

"Addie." He twists against the cuffs restraining him; there's nothing he can do to touch her, to comfort her. "Addie, please."

There are words, but his will be hollow.

What would he say?

 _It's okay._ But it's not.

 _We're going to get through this._ But he has no idea if that's the case.

 _I'm here._ Barely. And he knows they don't have much time.

"Addison." He tries to get her attention with only his voice, urging her to focus. "Hey. Addie, look at me."

"I'm sorry," she says again, and her cool fingers are brushing her own tears from his face.

"They're going to be back in a minute," he says urgently. "Addie - did they say anything else? Downstairs? Did you find out any more about what they want?"

She looks right into his eyes; hers are huge and mournful. "No," she says quietly, and he sees another tear fall. "They didn't say anything else."

..

Her heart speeds up as the intruder – the New One – pushes her ahead of him down the hall, her arm still stinging from the rough way she was yanked away from Derek.

 _It's my hall. It's my house._

But it doesn't feel like home. It feels like something else entirely: a battle zone, a prison. Some combination of the two. Her bare toes tangle on the runner that lines the hardwood floor and there's a noise of frustrated impatience behind her.

"Hurry up," he says coldly.

She keeps walking – will he tell her when they've reached their destination? She expels a breath of relief when they pass her bedroom and then swallows on renewed fear when he pushes open the door to Derek's office.

Or what was Derek's office.

Because it's not recognizable, not like this. Her husband is neat bordering on obsessive, as a surgeon should be; his papers are numerous but precisely organized; his folders are always labeled. His bookshelves are arranged first by subject, and then alphabetically by author.

Derek is neat and purposeful; the touches of warmth have always been hers in this room: the antique writing desk that caught her eye at an auction, the framed photographs she enlarged for the walls. They're all captured lashings of water, in different shades and tempers: eye-achingly blue Mediterranean calm, angry foam-capped Atlantic, meandering Housatonic with his prized fish just out of view. All photos they took. And on the desk, in a simple silver frame: the two of them at a benefit, a few years ago; she's wearing silky black and gold and beaming and he looks surprisingly comfortable in the elegant suit she selected for him. Her hand is tucked through his arm and then his own hand is resting over hers. Two points of connection. _Mine. Yours._

That's the version of the room she should see, and Derek should be in the ergonomic chair tapping a pen on a file while he thinks, clicking the keyboard or squinting at his oversized monitor.

This room is different.

This room … is aftermath.

Derek's files have been ransacked, the metal cabinet upended, a neat circle missing where the lock should be. Books have been pulled down from the shelves. The computer is gone; the drawers of the antique desk yawn half-open and empty. The furniture has been shoved toward one side of the room, with one exception

The narrow daybed with its wrought-iron swirled headboard – _I do some of my best thinking horizontally_ – has been stripped to a fitted sheet she doesn't recognize and pushed away from the walls.

And hanging from its headboard is a pair of handcuffs.

 _No!_

..

Derek is lying on his side facing his captor – the choice, to see him and know what might be coming next, so far worth the stomach-twisting disgust of having to look at him.

It's stiflingly quiet, just breathing and his own pulse in his ears.

Until his wife's voice rips through the silence.

"No!"

Then he's struggling to sit up, yanking at the cuffs connecting him to the headboard. Her terror is his.

"What's happening? Where is she?" he demands.

His captor looks unconcerned.

Metal rattles metal, and rage fights his fear. "Damn it, tell me what's going on!"

"Why? What are you going to do about it?"

"Please," he whispers, no longer caring about a brave face.

The intruder is silent for a moment. His voice is faintly nasal from his facial injuries. "Shut up and go to sleep," he says finally.

"You think I'm going to sleep when I don't know – when you're – " he stops talking, shaking his head. "You're insane. You're all insane."

"Believe that if you want." His captor glances at his phone. "But it's getting late."

"So?"

"So, you'll sleep."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because you took an _oath_ , Dr. Shepherd," he says, his voice dripping with disdain, "and you know you need some shut-eye before you meet with that very important patient."

"Before I – you expect me to – "

"Shut _up_." His captor sounds impatient, but not particularly angry. "Unless you want me to get the boss."

He shudders internally. That's the last thing he wants. "Please. Just tell me where my wife is. Please tell me if she's all right."

"She's in bed too, doc." The intruder's smirk is visible in the gap of his mask and Derek's stomach turns. "As for whether she's all right – well. Hopefully, for her sake, she's cooperating a bit more than you are."

..

"God, you're a fucking _chore_. Maybe Barrett's better off."

It takes her a moment to register the words; halfway across the threshold she's gone numb where he's gripping her arm – just above the elbow, the pressure point accurate and painful.

"Who's Barrett?"

Her captor shoves her further into the room. "Guy you killed. About yea high, brains all over the floor?" He levels his free hand almost a foot below his own height, smirking through the gap in his mask.

Her stomach turns over and for a moment the stench of blood is thick in her nostrils. "Your boss killed him," she spits.

"Because you just had to test her."

"Because she's a sociopath!"

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?" He gives her a rough shake; in spite of herself, she feels her body moving in his grip like a rag doll.

 _Cooperate,_ she reminds herself, _stay alive, we just need to stay alive._

"Done fighting?" He smirks. "Good." And then he's dragging her toward the unfamiliar-looking bed.

 _Cooperate, cooperate,_ but she can't seem to stop her body from resisting as he pushes her down on the mattress. Without even thinking about it, she's ducking and rolling away from him, sitting up half off the mattress.

Then he has her arm and he's dragged her close. "You've gotten away with a lot. But your little friend is dead. And I don't play." He shoves her down again and pulls her arm over her head; she feels rather than sees him snap the cuff around her wrist.

"What are you doing?" she asks, unable to keep the panic out of her voice.

"Don't get your hopes up, sweetheart. I'm on the job." He scoops her dangling legs onto the mattress – not gently, but not viciously, until she's lying on her back. "Bedtime."

He sits down casually a few feet away in Derek's ergonomic chair, the one she picked out, rolling it a few times here and there and then testing the pressure levers.

Her face must register her shock when he glances up at her.

"Fine, don't sleep, then. If you don't think you'll need your wits about you in the morning."

 _Wits._ She's going to need more than that.

She can't close her eyes and even if she could, she knows she would just see Derek's eyes, minutes before, searching hers: _did you find out any more about what they want?_ Hears her own shaky voice, her lie: _No._

The captor she thinks of as the New One is still sitting comfortably in Derek's chair, staring at her. His gaze is making gooseflesh rise; she shivers lightly.

The position of her arm has hiked her t-shirt up, and she feels the chill of the room on the bare skin of her stomach – more disturbingly, she feels his eyes on that same skin.

With her free hand, she tries to cross her body to tug down the hem of the shirt, but only succeeds in making the other half ride up too.

"Can I have a blanket, please?" she asks, forcing her voice not to tremble. "It's cold in here."

"You're lucky you have clothes."

"They're barely clothes!" She forgets her promise to herself to go along with whatever she needs to do to keep them safe. "I'm sure you're enjoying thi – " She gasps and goes quiet because he's suddenly looming over her – so big but he moves light and quick, like a cat – and one of his hands is grasping her face, hard, forcing her to look in his eyes.

"You know what? I don't think you appreciate the _gravity_ of your situation."

He releases her face and she lets out a breath of relief that quickly becomes another gasp when he slides his hands down to rest on her hips. One of his thumbs is tracing the bare skin of her stomach and she tastes bile in her throat. Inhaling, she tries to move as subtly as she can away from his hands, and he laughs – a nasty, knowing sort of laugh.

"You have a hell of an ego, don't you?" One of his hands is resting fully on her stomach now. "I know your type. Used to getting whatever you want," he suggests; then his hand drifting up her side and before she can stop herself her own hand is grasping his wrist.

All she touches is leather but her heart stops for a moment; hestops, and then his hand is on _her_ wrist and for a moment she could almost laugh, like they're playing hand-over-hand, figuring out who'll bat first, and she's dizzy.

"You know how easy it is to snap a wrist?" he asks casually, almost conversationally. "You don't need a lot of dexterity for what we have planned."

Her stomach is liquid, and she's certain he can see the painfully fast rise and fall of her chest, but she won't give in to the baiting.

Turning her wrist over a few times, he looks almost amused. Then he takes another set of cuffs off his belt and clips her once-free wrist to the headboard.

"Sleep, don't sleep. I don't give a shit. Just keep your mouth shut." He reaches for her shirt and laughs that nasty laugh again when she flinches away from him. For a moment his hands are resting on her bare skin again and she's nauseated. He feels lizardlike, inhuman.

She forces herself to meet his eyes – _who are you, under there?_ But all he does is tug her shirt down the way she wanted to earlier and then give her a disturbingly affectionate pat on her now covered stomach.

 _Why?_

But he speaks before she can.

"Shut your mouth, now, or I'll have to get creative next time."

..

 _You'll sleep, because you have a patient._

He's prided himself on being able to sleep anywhere, like a surgeon should, but he's never envisioned this. His body is smarting from being manhandled, his face aching from the blows he took earlier, his stomach sick with fear from the cry he heard earlier.

 _Stay strong, Addie._

He knows she can. He knows she will.

They're in this together.

..

She doesn't sleep.

She closes her eyes for brief periods to rest her aching lids, but her racing mind won't shut down. For once, she's grateful for it.

Maybe Derek is sleeping. She hopes so.

 _Can you forgive me for lying to you?_

Is she helping the intruders, helping Derek, helping herself?

Guilt swarms in her stomach, a familiar clench. She lies still in the sickly yellow light, the room feeling small and coffin like with the thick drapes drawn. Coffin.

Death.

 _He's a patient, patients die all the time._

She lies still, and she counts.

Faintly she hears the echoes of the grandfather clock downstairs.

Three chimes.

She should use this time productively. She could think, plan. Trace the blueprints of the house, strategize … something. But the edges of her mind are blurred; her mind feels weak, pained, too exhausted for anything more than forcing breaths in and out.

Four chimes.

She should have said _no._ No, she wouldn't keep this secret from Derek. She should have. She could she? _No._

Five chimes.

She should think. _Think, Addison,_ but she can't. Shame is leaking out her eyes for letting their snake-like captor draft her into their sick little game. Convince her to lie to Derek's face. To look into his blue eyes and _lie._

To let him think they were together in this, the two of them, while she lied.

"Rise and shine."

The New One's shadow looms over her and she blinks, forcing alertness into her sticky mind. He uncuffs her, laughs in that nasty way when her numb arms fall useless to the bed.

"Better shake it off," he advises her. "I don't do rubdowns."

He hauls her to her feet and she forces her lips closed when pain rockets through her arms.

It's cold in here, she's cold, shuddering in the thin t-shirt that doesn't cover nearly enough, trying to get enough feeling in one arm to massage the other but explosive prickles of feeling are breaking through the numbness and it's all she can do not to cry.

 _I'd rather be numb._

..

It's still dark out as he pushes her ahead of him down the stairs; he keeps one hand on her upper arm, which is unfortunately welcome – feeling is still flowing painfully back into her flesh and she's not certain she could balance on her own.

She's marched through the living room – an eye on the clock tells her they're still nearly an hour from sunrise – and then incongruously the scent of coffee beans fills her nostrils.

No one is touching her now.

She's alone.

She's … alone?

Blinking, she tries to make sense of the artificial brightness in the empty kitchen as she skids over the floor. The lights are blooming; the espresso machine is whirring, and the coffee grinder is wafting the heady fragrance of the single-source beans she prefers.

 _This was all a dream._

 _There's no one in the house._

 _Just a dream._

Relief hits her hard, weakening her knees.

"Coffee?"

The slithery voice slams into her relief, shattering one paradigm for another. Their female captor is leaning against the wall, sipping from a delicate cup – part of their wedding china.

"You'll want to be alert," their captor continues silkily. "Go ahead."

She indicates the machine and the New One is in the kitchen again, pouring a cup of coffee for Addison.

The sight is so bizarre it's almost amusing.

Except for the masks.

The guns.

The scent of fear thicker than any coffee.

Still she's grateful for the warm liquid that soothes her aching throat. The caffeine hits her empty stomach hard; she drains the cup and feels her pulse fluttering at her wrist when she sets it down.

For a moment she's an intern – _they're_ interns – chugging black coffee between shifts to force their lids open, to make their hands sure instead of shaky.

When she refocuses on the room there's a knowing expression in the female captor's eyes that makes the hair on her arms stand on end.

"Would you like another cup?"

 _I'd like you to stop playing fucking hostess in my kitchen!_

Wordlessly, she shakes her head.

Still draped in disappointment that this _wasn't_ all a dream, she tries to stay focused.

 _Stay strong._

"Where's my husband?" Her voice trembles anyway.

"He's resting," the female captor responds coolly. "He has a busy morning ahead of him."

A busy morning?

Addison blinks, feeling sleep-clogged even though she stayed awake every awkward, frightening hour in the narrow office bed.

"Patients come first, don't they?" Her captor gives her a disarming, sharp-toothed smile. "You've chosen such a difficult profession. You sacrifice sleep, time with your loved ones … so you can save other people's loved ones."

There's something unnervingly familiar about her words.

Then she remembers Derek, only a few hours ago, next to her on the living room couch.

 _Pre-op._

 _Tomorrow morning._

"Schaff," Addison whispers. "His pre-op … his pre-op?" Now she's more confused. "He's going to the hospital to see his patient? You're letting him leave?"

"We are … and we aren't," the female captor responds, maddeningly cryptic. "Let me show you what I mean," she offers, and she reaches for a slim black leather case.

Addison watches nervously, heart in her mouth, while she enters a code and snaps it open, then holds it out.

Her breath catches painfully when she sees what's inside.

 _No._

* * *

 ** _Still with me? Review and let me know; it encourages me to keep going._**


	14. Friday, 5:41 am

_**A/N: Hey - not really sure what happened because I posted this chapter but then it vanished from the site. So I'm trying again - hope it works this time.**_

 _ **Thank you so much for the reviews on the last chapter. I'm so glad people are still reading and enjoying this story (is enjoying the wrong word when it's so tense? I don't know...). I know I promised another chapter by this weekend, but I got felled by a winter cold. So here you go, on Monday, and it's another long one to make up for the delay.**_

* * *

 _Friday, 5:41 a.m._

* * *

It's a pleasant dream.

They're in the country – _the country,_ that's what Addison calls it, and he claims to hate it but he doesn't, not any more than Addison hates fishing. But they each have their role, their parts of the dialogue. Marriage is a play, but how many acts? His wife is sitting cross-legged in the sand, her hands sifting the grains. _You won't believe this,_ she says, and he's smiling because she loves to start stories this way. _I'll believe it,_ he counters. She laughs, her long hair lifted by the ocean breeze. It smells of salt and summer and he leans closer to hear her talk but when her lips part her voice is all wrong.

Deep.

Not hers at all.

 _Get up,_ she repeats, and he's confused.

"I said, _get up._ "

Then he's awake, thudding back to consciousness in one fell swoop, masked face a foot from his as his captor unlatches the handcuffs that attached him to the bed.

There's no beach.

No ocean, no sand.

No Addison.

When he's released, he sits up so quickly his stomach muscles protest, arms hanging dead by his sides.

They hurt but he hasn't felt the full of it yet, he knows.

"Where's my wife?" He scans the room as the rest of the previous night comes back to him, unwillingly.

 _I slept. I actually slept._

"She's fine," the captor says without expression, answering the question he meant rather than the one he asked.

"I want to see her." His voice sounds hoarse, unused. He coughs, but finds he can barely lift his arm to brush against his lips. There's a bottle of water in front of his face then; he tries to take it but his hands aren't quite working.

"Just – drink," his captor says, sounding annoyed, thrusting the bottle toward Derek's lips and with shame he sips greedily.

The cold water feels soothing.

"Thank you," he mutters, clearing his throat. "Can I see her?" he asks, more deferentially this time.

"When you're ready."

"Ready for what?"

"For work," the intruder says as if it's perfectly normal.

Derek stares down at his wrinkled clothes, limp with perspiration. They smell of fear and heat and when he drags a numb hand across his face he feels scruffy overgrowth.

"For work," he repeats.

He remembers his captor's words from a few hours ago: _You know you need some shut-eye before you meet with that very important patient._

"You want a shower or not?" the intruder snaps.

He does, he can't lie about that.

..

She's sitting on the kitchen floor, arms wrapped around her knees. They haven't cuffed her to anything.

Maybe they're convinced she won't resist.

Maybe that's worse.

There's a second cup of coffee next to her; shakily, she downs it. She doesn't think to sniff this one or swirl its contents in the china cup. Maybe drugging her would be an act of mercy at this point.

… which means it's unlikely.

There's no mercy here.

She can't keep her eyes from skating to the slim leather case now sitting on the kitchen table. It's closed again, but she can still see the shining silver instruments.

Scissors.

Scalpel.

Sutures.

She shudders.

 _Torture,_ that was her first nauseating thought when the female captor flashed its contents.

The Boss seems to notice her looking now, and extends a gloved hand to stroke the surface of the leather case.

"Trust, but verify, Dr. Shepherd," she says. "Surely you understand."

Addison studies her empty cup of coffee. "I don't."

Suddenly the same gloved hand is in front of her.

Is she – offering her help up?

The idea is so confusing that Addison just sits there, until she's hauled to her feet with one surprisingly strong arm.

"We can't send your husband out into the world all by himself, can we?" Her voice is softly mocking. "Not without knowing what he's doing."

 _A tracking device._

Small and powerful.

She feels dizzy now, picturing it.

 _Derek, I'm sorry._

She steps closer – too close – until Addison can't avoid her cold eyes. They seem to see right through her.

"You _do_ understand, Dr. Shepherd, because unlike your husband, you know what we want."

She flinches at _unlike your husband._

"He won't do it," she says, unable to stop herself.

"No?"

"No, he won't. He wouldn't harm – he'd let you kill him first."

"Ah, but it's not him we'd kill. Do you still think he'd make the same choice?"

Her heart sinks.

"I wonder how he would feel if he knew you're keeping this from him," her captor muses.

"I'm not," she chokes.

The Boss arches an eyebrow. "Tell yourself whatever you need to. It won't be the first time, I'm sure."

 _What's that supposed to mean?_

But she's quiet, her hands shaking.

"Very good, Dr. Shepherd. Your self-control is improving." The Boss looks her up and down and Addison forces herself to stay still. "Would you like to see your husband?"

Hardly daring to breathe, she nods.

The female captor jerks her head toward the New One, who's been leaning menacingly against the wall feet away.

"Take her upstairs."

Addison flinches instinctively when he grabs her arm, but all he does is push her ahead of him through the kitchen.

She stumbles a little on the landing and he hauls her back to her feet. When he pushes her across the threshold of their bedroom and she sees it's empty, her heart stops in her mouth.

He's tricked her.

She swings her head toward him in a panic, her stomach hollow.

And hears running water from the en suite bathroom.

 _He's getting ready in there. Like an ordinary morning._

She's not sure if the thought is more comforting or terrifying.

Then her captor is opening the door to the closet, dragging her with him.

"Get him something to wear," he orders.

"Me?" she asks, blinking, still feeling sleep-stupid after two strong coffees.

She should have taken the third, maybe.

"You." He shoves her toward the racks of hanging clothes. "Whatever he'd normally wear. Whatever won't raise … suspicions."

With shaking hands, unable to keep from throwing nervous glances over her shoulder, she selects a suit and tie.

"Can I have something to wear, too, please?" she asks, keeping her voice even as if the answer doesn't matter.

He takes a long time to answer, weighty moments in which she tries not to feel his eyes lingering on her bare legs.

"Get him out the door, and I'll consider it."

..

She's certain she ages years waiting for him to come out of the bathroom.

 _He's going to be all right. They need him._

She recites the mantra until the door opens and there he is.

His eyes widen and her chest aches to see him looking so _normal_ , at first glance, towel around his waist, freshly shaven.

"Two minutes," their captor says and then they're alone in the bedroom.

Her heart thumps as she takes him in. Up close, he's not normal. His face is bruised, his eyes hollow with fear; his wrists cuffed behind him.

"You showered," she says, for lack of anything better.

"Yeah." He glances ruefully down at the towel, then moves closer to her. "Addie … they're saying I can leave. Go and do Schaff's pre-op."

She nods. "I know."

"Okay." He pauses, glancing toward the door. "I'm going to tell them I won't go in without you."

Her breath catches. "Derek …"

"No, I think it will work. They need me to go in. Whatever they want me to do, they need me to act normal. If I don't act normal, it won't work. Right?"

She nods hesitantly.

"Then I have the upper hand," he says. "And I'm not leaving this house without you."

"Derek."

"I'm not leaving you here." His voice creaks with exhaustion – or is it fear?

She raises her hand to his freshly shaven cheek; his skin feels smooth under her palm.

 _We don't have the upper hand. We never have the upper hand._

Helplessly, she nods just as the door opens.

Their time is up.

..

What's happened to his life in less than twelve hours?

Enough that having his hands cuffed in front of him instead of behind feels like mercy. That the cuffs of his dress shirt provide a welcome barrier between cold metal and chafed skin.

That the masked intruders in his kitchen, which smells of freshly brewed coffee and reflects weak pre-dawn light, seem to belong there. They move with the easy confidence of predators who've subdued their prey and as he meets his wife's eyes across the room he fears they're right.

"How am I supposed to explain my face?" Derek asks, heart thudding, aware he's trying to buy time.

"You were mugged on the way to the hospital. Pity," the Boss says coolly. "Which also explains why you have no wallet."

"But that's – "

"There'll be a police report on file."

Derek's head spins.

 _Who are these people?_

"I'm sure you can lie, Dr. Shepherd. It may not come as easily to you as it does to … others … but I think you can manage."

He swallows.

"You're going to the hospital, and you'll take Schaff's pre-op appointment as if nothing is wrong. Acting, Dr. Shepherd. Think of those Christmas pageants you starred in as a child." The female captor slinks closer. **"** You will be watched. Every moment. You will carry out your routine the way you normally would but you will _never_ be out of our sight. And you will not contact anyone, give any sign, or make any indication that anything is less than _perfectly normal_ … if you value your wife's life."

Derek waits for her to stop speaking. "If you want me to do something, why don't you just tell me what?"

"Because you don't need to know. For now, you just _need_ to do exactly what you would have done anyway. You'll know what you need to know when you know it."

"Then how am I supposed to –"

"Step by step, Dr. Shepherd," she says coolly. "Step by step. Break it down into manageable pieces. You didn't become a world-class surgeon overnight, did you? There were steps. There was college. Acing your pre-med requirements. The MCATs. The interviews. Medical school. Matching. Residency. Fellowship."

He doesn't say anything.

"It's been a long road, hasn't it?" she asks coolly. "A road in pieces. That's how I'd like you think. Right now, all you need to do is go to the hospital, conduct your pre-op exam, and let nothing slip." She pauses, her eyes fixed on his. "Or the road won't be the only thing in pieces."

He can't help shuddering, even knowing he's playing right into her hands.

"Do what we tell you, and you'll see your wife again … whole."

He sees Addison shakes her head slightly at him.

He nods, just as slightly, trying to telegraph reassurance. They're only words, only threats.

Whatever they want from him, they'll have to start giving in addition to taking. If what they want is for him to follow orders.

"Fine," Derek says shortly. "I'll do what you want."

He sees the Boss exchange a glance that looks – is it amused? – with the male intruder.

"Wise choice, Dr. Shepherd," she says coolly, leaning a bit on the word _choice_ as if it's ironic.

" … _if_ we can go together." He gestures to Addison.

The Boss's expression doesn't change. She almost seems bored.

"She stays here."

"No." Derek stands up a little straighter. "I'm not going without her."

There's a pregnant pause.

"Not going without her …" the Boss repeats, then inclines her head slightly toward Derek. It only increases her snake-like demeanor.

"You will _do_ what we tell you."

"No." He shakes his head. "I'm standing my ground. We – "

But his words are lost when she grasps his forearm with one gloved hand, her fingers digging into his flesh. "Dr. Shepherd," she says coldly, "I could throw you out … but I don't have to. Because you will do as we tell you. Willingly. _Eagerly._ Because even if you don't value your own life …"

And she gestures toward Addison, who is standing very still in front of the captor who's holding her.

"Derek," she says quietly, her gaze urgent. "Don't … it's okay."

"She's half-right, anyway." The Boss shakes him free. "I'd say I admire your gall … but I'd be lying."

She releases him and walks over to Addison. "Did you know your husband took your safety – your life – so much for granted?" she asks, her voice dripping with feigned innocence.

Addison stares straight ahead, not acknowledging her, but Derek can see fear in her posture and his own heart speeds up, regretting the stand he tried to take.

"I'll do –"

But his promise is cut off by a cry from Addison.

She's still restrained in the male captor's arms, but now the Boss has one of her hands – her invaluably trained, strong surgeon's hands – between both of her gloved ones. Derek can't see what she's doing but can hear from Addison how painful it must be.

"Please!" he shouts, all bargaining forgotten. "I'll do it. I'll go. Please stop."

His brain is flooded with adrenaline, fear making the edges of his vision sparkle. If he resists, they'll hurt her. If he does what they ask, he has to leave her and … won't know what they're doing to her.

There's no good choice.

There's nothing.

Just her words, earlier: _Derek … don't, it's okay._

He decides to trust her.

"I'll do it," he says again, and he can see from his wife's expression, even as she's slumped forward, still trying to get control after whatever was done to her, that it's the right choice. The one she would have picked.

"Good." The boss nods. "Dr. Shepherd … don't be stupid again. You won't get unlimited chances."

..

"The human hand is surprisingly resilient."

The captor's cold words come as Addison carefully flexes hers.

Spread out between them is the open leather case with its gleaming surgical instruments. Derek, his shoulders stooped like he's already given up the fight, is seating in the turned-backwards kitchen chair, shirtless.

 _She can't._

And it's not because of the throbbing in her hand. She lifts it now, placing it carefully against the plane of her husband's back.

She feels him flinch, she flinches in return.

"I can't," she whispers, out loud this time.

"Please." Derek's voice breaks her trance. "Addison … please."

She draws shuddering breath, trying to force herself to focus. The idea of their captors – who have been terrorizing them since their arrival – cutting into Derek's willing flesh makes bile rise in her throat.

But so does the idea of her doing it herself.

And so does the expression in his eyes when he looks over his shoulder at her.

It's trusting.

He still trusts her.

 _What have I done?_

Shakily, she nods.

She may have to force herself to do it, but better her than someone else.

Decision is half the battle; still, she pauses, one hand resting on the familiar muscles of his back.

Scalpel in hand, she tries to focus, to control the shaking. To keep from hurting him any more than she needs to. To control her own nausea, the tunneling of her vision that threatens to steal her breath.

But everything from the set of his shoulders to the way his hair looks from this angle, to the scent of him this close – he is too real, too _known_ , too much hers.

It's too personal.

They drape bodies in surgery, they block their humanity to allow them to plunge sharp metal into vulnerable flesh.

There's no drape here.

No block.

No mercy.

"Addison, just do it," he hisses under his breath and she makes the first cut.

She's outside her body, it seems, hovering over the hunched man gripping his own forearms while the frozen-faced woman slices into his flesh, inserts the device, talking to herself all the while like she's instructing interns in the OR.

She hovers, and she feels sorry for them, these broken people.

 _How did you get here?_

There's blood, and the woman sponges it; she's crying, Addison notices. A tear falls onto the flesh in front of her

 _How will you get out?_

That's not sterile. That won't do.

 _How will you survive?_

Iodine, sutures, bandage.

 _How can -_

A voice is calling her as if from far away.

"Addison. _Addison._ "

She blinks and there's floor under her, air pressing from both sides. And her husband is sitting in front of her, a white bandage demarcating the spot under his skin where she implanted the tracking device.

 _What have I done?_

"Thank you," Derek says quietly. He takes her hand – she sees him flinch, but he holds on.

"Well done, doctor," the Boss says airily. "Now. Let's test it out, shall we?"

Their female captor raises her wrist to show them what she's wearing. A watch – but it's not a watch.

"Move," she tells Derek, and he does, dropping her hand reluctantly and letting himself be walked through the house like a captured animal.

Meanwhile, Addison watches the device – she has no choice, it's been thrust inches from her face. The dot moves.

And then Derek is back.

"There we go. We'll see all your movements. You will be watched in the hospital. Every step, every word, every _glance._ "

Derek stares at the device on the female captor's wrist. It's so tiny.

"The equipment is monitored in real time," she assures him, "but it's nice to keep an eye on your team, isn't it? To make sure you've delegated to the right people."

She's staring right at Addison.

Then she turns back to Derek. "Screw up one second outside this house – and she dies."

Addison's heart is thumping.

Without warning, the New One drags her against him, a hank of her hair in his hand; she's breathing quickly through her nose, trying not to panic, seeing Derek straining against the arm across his chest.

"She dies," the New One repeats, gun at her pulsing neck, "and … we take our time." He slides cold metal down her body as she closes her eyes, not sure shame or horror is more dominant right now.

"Please," Derek whispers, and she opens her eyes again.

"Don't beg," the Boss says sharply. "Just get it done."

The intruder's words are echoing in her head.

 _I'm collateral._

 _That's all I am._

She draws in breath, fighting for sufficient oxygen, wondering if this development hasn't given her more options than she had before …

Or if she's just too exhausted at this point to make sense of any of it.

..

Every fiber of his being is screaming at him not to leave.

But the threats move his feet move him forward across molasses, his breath catching in his throat remembering the gun pressed into Addison's side, the careless way the female captor hurt her.

 _If I leave, she's in danger._

 _If I stay, she's in danger._

His back throbs where she inserted the device.

 _No matter what, we're in danger._

And he still doesn't know what they want: information? Control, threats? For him to harm Schaff, or save him, or … hide him? The possibilities seem endless when considering their scope.

Their female captor is stalking behind him; she pauses when he reaches the front door, one gloved hand on the knob.

"Dr. Shepherd," she says silkily, "your wife is so … self-sacrificing. I'm sure you've noticed. And perhaps you, too, are planning to devalue her life. Let me show you something before you … finalize your calculus."

Delicately, with leather clad fingers, she pulls something out of the pocket of her leather jacket.

Derek stares.

"No." He shakes his head.

It can't be.

She would have told him.

"I'm afraid so." The Boss pauses, a cold smile spreading across her face. "Do we understand each other better now?"

"I don't believe you," he blurts.

"That's your right, Dr. Shepherd. As long as you're willing to take the risk … of more than one life."

With that, she pulls open the front door and Derek finds himself staggering onto the rain-slick stoop, blinking into the weak morning light and trying to make sense of what he just saw.

* * *

 _ **To be continued. (Along with my other WIPs, of course.) I love hearing your thoughts, and they are incredibly motivating, so I hope you will review. Thank you for reading!**_


	15. Friday, 6:29 am

_**A/N: Thank you so much for the feedback on the last chapter! I hope you enjoy this one. My writing time on this story is fairly limited since it creeps me out too much to write it late at night. #winterproblems.**_

* * *

 _Friday, 6:29 a.m._

* * *

Somehow, for the second time in his life – bracketing a gap of twenty-five years – Derek's existence has narrowed to one word.

Survival.

 _Screw up one second outside this house, and she dies._

His heartbeat is loud in his ears, echoing in time with their threats.

 _She dies … and we take our time._

He's flooded with helpless rage as he recalls the expression on Addison's face when the captor dragged his weapon with purposeful slowness along her body. The way he stared at Derek, like a challenge.

He couldn't protect her. He couldn't do anything.

 _Addison, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

He had no choice. He left.

He just … walked away.

And he keeps walking now, trying to focus on the blurred buildings, the shimmering edge of the park, to block out what their female captor shoved into his line of vision in the doorway.

 _As long as you're willing to take the risk … of more than one life._

He shudders.

He's been trying not to think about it from the moment his feet skidded on the wet steps of their brownstone. Because it's not real. She would have told him.

Wouldn't she?

He has no way to ask her now, no way to seek her reassurance. She is the only one he can trust in this nightmare that has become their life, their marriage, and he doesn't have to ask her to know she feels the same way.

So he forces it out of mind and focuses on getting to the hospital. Because he has to do what they want – that's all he has, all he can do, to protect her.

He has to walk.

He has to act – and he could choke on the impossibility of it all – _natural._

Natural. Natural eludes him with each rise of a foot in the stiff-soled leather shoes Addison selected for him – they're Italian, one of those things he has no idea _why_ he knows, other than his wife must have mentioned it at some point – because he has to concentrate on each aching step.

 _Just walking away_ is intricate agony, this morning.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Sidewalk, air, sidewalk again.

 _Just act normal._

But walking feels impossible.

Hell, breathing feels pretty impossible right now. He's still blinking into the weak morning light, trying to understand what's happened to his life in the last twelve hours before he was shoved outside of the brownstone that's become their prison.

Alone.

Forced to leave Addison behind at the mercy of their captors.

He's filled with shame at his own overconfidence. _We have the upper hand here._ And then it was Addison's hand – her expert, trained, invaluably gifted hand – subjected to some kind of torture he couldn't see.

He couldn't see it, but he could hear her pain, and he knew it was his fault.

So much for his plans. So much for thinking they could take back any power here.

Which is why he's alone, walking down a sidewalk he's traversed every morning since they moved into the brownstone, flush with the glee of joint property ownership, Addison fluttering from room to room with fistfuls of paint and paper samples, arguing passionately with the decorator about things he didn't even realize mattered.

Every second feels like an hour, every painstaking footfall like a mile. Is he even halfway down their block yet?

Then he's reached the intersection and he stands on the edge of the sidewalk waiting for the light to change, like he would any ordinary morning. It's cold and misty on the street, too early for sun, too much indecisive late-winter – or is it early spring? – to be certain of the weather at all.

 _She dies … and we take our time._

His hand shakes; he shoves it into the pocket of his coat. His fingers hit a thin folded square of paper, something unexpected, and he pulls it out. All he sees is the NYPD seal at the top before his hands start shaking more.

 _There'll be a police report on file._

And a pink carbon copy of it in his coat pocket. _Who the hell are these people?_

And why is it taking the light so long to change?

And why is that bicycle messenger looking at him?

His stomach turns over.

And the elderly man in the fur-trimmed coat, trailing an equally elderly-looking Pomeranian on a leash – is _he_ looking?

And the young blonde woman walking two little boys in matching backpacks – her accent is German, he thinks, or Swiss, probably an au pair – is she looking too?

His heartbeat speeds up with the pace of his clumsy feet. He walks faster, faster, trying to get to the hospital.

For some reason it seems safer to be inside. Not here on the sidewalk where anyone could be part of the conspiracy that's turned his life upside down. In the brownstone, they were trapped; outside, with the sky the only wall, he somehow feels more trapped.

Maybe because Addison is still sealed behind the heavy front door of the brownstone.

 _I'm sorry, Addie. I'm so sorry._

His breathing is loud in his ears. He forces himself to calm down. There's no reason to think the blue-uniformed cop on the corner chatting pleasantly to his partner is in on this. No reason to think the man at the coffee cart who's greeted him with _hey, doc,_ every morning for three years is in on it either. Even the Boss, with her snakelike eyes and seeming capability of knowing everything, couldn't have planted a coffee guy here three years ago.

And then it's too much; the fear, Addison's cry of pain, the leering way the captor held her, the Boss's cold smirk when she thrust in front of his face something she must have thought would keep him in line.

He can't breathe.

He's bent double, hands on his knees, tunneling out.

He's going to disappear.

"Hey, man, you okay?"

"Just take it easy."

"You think he's gonna pass out?"

Unfamiliar voices bring him back to reality. He's surrounded by strangers with looks of concern – even compassion – and breathing is so difficult right now he can't even reflect on which one of them could be working for their captors. His wrists ache from the unfamiliar clamp of handcuffs; his back stings where the tracking device was inserted; his chest is a rock of tension that won't allow air through.

"Just take it easy," a guy in a work uniform encourages him.

Strangers, helping someone on the street. He's seen it before. How many times when he was rotating through the ER or consulting on head trauma did he see total strangers bringing someone in for help? _I just saw him fall,_ they would say. _Nah, I don't know her, she passed out next to me on line at Gristede's._

Most people help people. So simple, so optimistic, so _stupid_ , maybe, but is that why he's so surprised by the intruders, by the terrifying prison their home has become? Because, in spite of all he's seen and witnessed and suffered, he's always been convinced of the basic goodness of people?

 _You're an optimist,_ Addison used to tease him, and he would call her a pessimist right back, they'd joke about yin and yang, dark and light, and now here, alone, as he gathers necessary air into his lungs and thanks the strangers for their concern, he just hopes he can maintain it.

He has a feeling that to survive he's going to need some optimism.

With some work, he convinces the group that he's fine to keep walking. "You should get checked out," the woman says, frowning. She points in the direction of his destination. "You're lucky there's a hospital half a block up."

 _Yeah … lucky._

He assures them he'll get checked out.

And then he staggers the rest of the way to the hospital's beckoning glass doors, just praying his performance hasn't been weak enough to threaten Addison's life.

… or anyone else's.

 _Just act normal,_ he coaches himself. If this were an ordinary day, he'd follow his ordinary path.

Walk to work – he did that already.

Find coffee. Review charts. His mind is racing; he needs simple, one word answers.

Coffee.

He'll find coffee.

"Derek!"

He's barely halfway toward the first-floor lounge when he hears his name, a blur of blue scrubs and white coat blocking his path

"Mark." The blood in his ears reaches a powerful crescendo. "…hey."

 _Normal. Be normal._

How can he be normal when it's everything but? The fluorescent hospital lights are already giving him a headache.

Everyone who passes – doctors, nurses, orderlies, patients, family – he's certain he can see flickers of danger in the eyes of even people he recognizes.

 _Which one of you is watching me?_

 _Waiting for me to screw up?_

"Hey." Mark frowns. "What happened to you?"

He forces himself to meet the other man's gaze and realizes Mark is looking at his face.

Of course he is.

Weakly, Derek stammers out the story.

Mugged.

Wallet.

Police.

Mark looks concerned. "They roughed you up, huh?"

 _You have no idea._

"Barely." He glances quickly at his friend and continues to walk down the hall, hoping his downplaying is believable.

"That sucks." Mark walks alongside him – Derek's not sure if he's chagrined or relieved – chatting in a friendly manner. "Hey, you remember that time at Bellevue when …"

He just nods, not listening to the rest of the story. Mark's familiar voice is turning into a wordless gravelly hum. He's too busy thinking. Calculating.

Every passing pair of scrubs makes him wonder.

"Derek? You sure you're okay? You're acting weird."

"I'm fine," Derek says immediately. He tries to stop his gaze from darting around the hallway. Could he say something to Mark? Is there time? He knows they're tracking his movement on whatever they've implanted into the back of his stinging shoulder. But they can't hear him. He could whisper something. He could try to get him alone, get help. Is there some chance of –

"Be careful, Dr. Shepherd!"

His heart stops. It's a young resident – O'Toole, O'Leary, something like that – with reddish hair.

 _She heard me._

 _She knows._

His mouth is too dry to speak.

"Derek," Mark says, sounding confused. He's pointing to the ground, where a puddle of spilled liquid on the linoleum blocks their path.

"I just didn't want you to slip," the resident says, blushing. "I'm sorry."

Derek tries to catch his breath. His chest is painfully tight. _She doesn't know_. He's just paranoid, terrified … and with good reason.

"Derek, are you sure you're okay? You didn't get knocked on the head or something?"

"I'm okay," he says stiffly, holding his best friend's gaze for just a moment.

 _Read my mind, Mark. Remember when we were kids and we had those plastic decoder rings, and –_

"Whatever." Mark shrugs affably. "Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something – but I have to check on a patient first. Catch you later?"

 _Don't go_ , his mind calls out shamefully.

"Yeah," he mutters, turning to avoid the slippery puddle on the floor. "Catch you later."

 _If they don't catch me first._

..

Inside the kitchen that once seemed peaceful, early morning light creeping through the careful landscaping in the garden, Addison stands a few feet from their female captor, hoping she looks braver than she feels.

There's silence that feels endless, and then finally, the Boss speaks:

"That was an excellent … _performance_ , Dr. Shepherd."

The word makes Addison's blood run cold, as she sees the Boss's gaze fall directly on her right hand. Automatically, she rubs the hand in question.

"I would have said it bordered on the melodramatic, but apparently it worked." The Boss studies her coolly for a moment. "It's been a long time since Miss Porter's required declamations, but you've apparently kept up your skills."

She doesn't respond.

"I think we can both agree that what matters … is that your husband seemed convinced."

Her breath catches in her throat.

 _Derek, I'm sorry._

"He would never know I hardly touched your hand at all." The Boss gives her a meaningful look that Addison finds frightening easy to read: _but we know._

The word _we_ nauseates her, but she can't pretend it isn't true.

She does know.

She knows more than that, too: she knows that Derek was reluctant to leave her. She knows that they were losing patience with him. She knows that he's safer outside the house.

Here, in the brownstone, behind closed doors … no one is safe.

Carefully, she flexes the fingers of her right hand.

She tries not to think of Derek's panic when he believed she was being subjected to torture.

 _I'm sorry, Derek. I did it for you, but I'm sorry._

"You've been very helpful this morning, doctor," the Boss continues.

"I wasn't helping you." Addison's voice shakes. "I was helping my husband."

"By lying to him."

"No, that's not – " Addison stops talking.

"I understand, Dr. Shepherd," she cuts in with condescending kindness.

"You _don't_ understand." Addison knows she should stop talking, but she can't help herself. "You have no idea –

"You seem to think we're very different," the Boss muses.

"We are!" Addison draws a deep breath when the Boss doesn't look convinced. " _I'm_ not a criminal," she says, not caring in the moment whether she draws their captor's ire.

But she doesn't. If anything, the Boss looks briefly amused. "You're not a criminal?"

"Of course not."

"I see." The Boss's eyes are narrowed, snakelike. "And … what is a criminal, Dr. Shepherd?"

"What is a criminal?" she repeats blankly. "It's – " She finds herself not sure what to say, just gesturing weakly around her own kitchen. _It's you. It's all of you._

"Ah. Perhaps you think you're not just different, but ... better?" the Boss suggests.

She doesn't quite dare to nod, but lets her head twitch slightly in response.

"I see. You've never wanted something so deeply that you would do anything for it?"

 _Has she?_

Derek's life. Her life.

"That you would lie?"

She sees herself crying out with fear and desperation, not pain, when their female captor squeezed her hand, hears herself at Derek's side, the agony of seeing him chained to the headboard, while he tried to comfort her and she hated herself for keeping the truth from him. _Addie – did they say anything else?_ His words were urgent, but still gentle. _No,_ that's what she said, and when a tear fell he probably thought it was fear, sadness, a combination – not shame. Shame that she knew what their captors wanted from Derek and shame that she couldn't tell him. _They didn't say anything else._

She lied.

The Boss doesn't force her to say it out loud, but the look of satisfied amusement on her face suggests she knows exactly what Addison is thinking, and the intimacy of that shared secret nauseates her.

"I wouldn't – "

"That you would cheat? Steal?" the Boss interrupts her, the suggestive way she stresses the word _cheat_ makes her heart skip an extra beat.

She tries to form the word _no._

But she can't.

"No?" the Boss prompts her. "Never?"

"I wouldn't _kill_ ," Addison says, hoping her voice sounds stronger out loud than in her head.

 _They're not like you._

 _They're tricking you._

But the words might be more comforting if she could share them with someone on her side. Now, in this house that used to be her home, with more enemies than she can count … powerless … she's alone.

Blood rushes in her ears.

"You wouldn't kill?" The Boss's tone is mild, even amused. Suddenly, quick as a cat, she's seized one of the looming male captors and her pistol is carved into his windpipe.

 _No._

But Addison is frozen. She can't speak. She can't move.

 _Don't kill him right in front of me._

Her staggered breaths taste of copper.

 _Not again._

"Let's say, for the sake of this hypothetical, Dr. Shepherd, that you were armed," the Boss says, her tone conversational, far too prosaic considering one of her own men is gasping under the pressure of her weapon and Addison's bare legs are trembling so badly she's not sure how long she can stay up. "Would you shoot me?"

She shakes her head, confused.

"Would you shoot me?" the Boss continues. "Oh – but I should add that the scenario is slightly different. It's not this – creature." She indicates the man at the mercy of her weapon with one flick of a pointed-toe boot. "It's your husband."

"What?" Her mind is blurry.

"It's your husband," she repeats. "Here, in this position, with me, and you're armed." She digs the weapon in a bit more for good measure; Addison winces. "What do you do?"

And the Boss smiles – that unnerving, predatory smile that makes her stomach feel hollow.

"What do you do?" she repeats, and apparently for emphasis, she jabs her weapon even deeper into the male captor's throat and he hisses with pain.

 _Shoot._

 _I'd shoot you._

She doesn't say it out loud, but her trembling fingers move slightly as if seeking a trigger.

It's clear from the Boss's look of satisfaction that she's following along.

"That's different," Addison protests weakly. "That's – that would be self-defense."

"So you _would_ kill. To get what you want."

She doesn't answer, but she can see in their captor's face that she didn't have to.

"That's helpful to know." The Boss releases the male captor she's been holding, stepping away from him with a slight grimace like he's an ant underfoot.

"Dr. Shepherd," she says, "when you … suggested to your husband that you were in pain, earlier, you were trying to help him? That's what you said?"

She feels she's walking into a trap, but has no choice but to nod.

 _I'm sorry, Derek. I'm so sorry._

"So it was your idea, then. Pretending."

She shakes her head slowly, not sure how to respond. Wasn't it?

"Or was it what _I_ wanted you to do, and you carried out my bidding?"

She's confused, trying to search her memories. She recalls her fear that Derek wouldn't leave, that he would get more hurt. She remembers the Boss blocking her, taking Addison's hand between her two cold ones. And she recalls her own scream, the cry of someone in terrible pain.

"Carried out my bidding, without my even having to convince you? Or to ask? So clever."

No, it was her idea.

To help Derek.

Wasn't it?

 _Wasn't it?_

The Boss looks amused again, her expression cold but with an undercurrent of something she can't quite identify.

"Boss?" One of male captors sticks his head through the open kitchen archway. "He's on the move."

"Good." She nods, glancing at the digital wristwatch she's wearing – for what, Addison isn't quite sure, though she knows there's more information contained somewhere. "Tell Randall I'm coming in."

The masked man nods, then indicates Addison with a jerk of his head. "You want me to take her?"

"She'll come with me."

"To control?" he glances back and forth between Addison and their tall female captor. "But …"

"Are you questioning me?"

"No, of course not," he says hastily.

"I didn't think so. Stay here," she orders him, then points to the archway, indicating that Addison should walk ahead of her.

A few automatic steps, trying not to anger her further, and Addison can't help but glance back over her shoulder quizzically.

"Wait."

Obediently, Addison stops walking.

She stands very still, watching the Boss exchanges some words with one of the male captors, who nods and disappears up the steps.

He returns quickly, holding –

A pair of jeans.

Her jeans.

Mutely, the masked man holds them out to her and despite the hope that floods her, she finds her hand pausing halfway toward the proffered denim.

Is it a trick?

It must be a trick.

"Go ahead," the Boss encourages, sounding almost … pleasant? … framed in the open kitchen doorway. "Put them on. Unless you'd prefer to put on a show for the others."

Quickly, before their captor can change her mind, Addison grabs the jeans and steps into them, dragging them up her trembling legs. Her fingers fumble a little at the buttons – this pair buttons all the way up the placket, no zip, Derek likes to tease her about it – but once she's wearing them she's instantly warmer.

And confused.

"Better?"

The Boss's question, seemingly without malice or undercurrent, just confuses her further. And her face must register it.

"Think of it as a little … welcome aboard gift."

"Welcome … aboard?" Addison tries to understand, sure she must be missing something.

"Welcome aboard," the Boss repeats. But it's her next words that make Addison's breath catch in her throat.

Because the Boss's next words are, even after this dizzying twelve hours of captivity, uniquely terrifying.

"You're on our team now, Dr. Shepherd."

* * *

 _ **To be continued. I absolutely love hearing your thoughts on this story, so I hope you will review and tell me! Happy Saturday to all.**_


	16. Friday, 7:19 am

**A/N:** It's been a while for this story - I'm sorry, and I am planning to get back to updating it more frequently. Here's a double-long chapter to get us back in the game. I want to thank everyone who asked about this story and requested that I add it to the post-hiatus lineup. I promise I am updating all my WIPs, and I appreciate so much that you are still interested in reading them. You may want to quickly scan the last chapter to get re-oriented before you read this one, but if you remember, Derek was on his way to the hospital for the pre-op under duress, and Addison was about to get a tour of control.

* * *

 _Friday, 7:19 a.m._

* * *

 _You're going to the hospital, and you'll take Schaff's pre-op appointment as if nothing is wrong. Acting, Dr. Shepherd._

Acting. His hands feel thick and clumsy, molded to the chart.

 _You will be watched. Every moment._

"Good morning, Dr. Shepherd!"

He nods weakly in greeting; faces he should recognize as blurred as strangers. It could be anyone … it must be someone …

 _You will carry out your routine the way you normally would but you will_ _never_ _be out of our sight._

The boss's words echo in his head.

Normal.

There's nothing normal about this.

He moves as if underwater, heartbeat in his mouth, through a hospital that seems like a dream. Reality shifted, less than twelve hours ago. The rest of the world might as well be a dream, now.

He might be in it.

But he's not _of_ it.

He should be at home. With Addison, with the intruders who violated their home and their safety.

Not here.

His hand lingers, for a moment, at his pager. _Normal_ Derek carries a page. A phone. Normal Derek speaks to people.

 _And you will not contact anyone, give any sign, or make any indication that anything is less than_ _perfectly normal_ _… if you value your wife's life._

And there's the catch.

Because every time his fingers brush his pager, every squeaking freshly-bleached linoleum step that takes him closer to the discreet privacy wing on the sixth floor, every time he has a brief and wild flash of hope, he remembers.

He remembers the sickening scream when the boss did … whatever she did, to Addison. Threatening her hand: her gift, her livelihood. He was the cause of that pain, and he won't be the cause of any more.

He can't be.

So his only choice is to be … normal.

"Derek – hey."

It's Mark, striding toward him again like it's an ordinary morning, holding a fragrant cup of coffee and looking for all the world like he's certain of his next breath.

 _Be normal. Act normal._

"Hey," Derek echoes, and his voice hangs in his ears like a lingering scent.

"You're still here," Mark says.

The fluorescent hospital lights are giving him a headache; he's choking on sound.

"Pre-op." Derek indicates the closed chart in his hand.

"Right." Mark nods. "Listen, I wanted to run something by you. Do you remember that baby with the cleft palate who –"

The rest of the question, the story, whatever it is, dulls into a bumblebee's hum.

" – and the thing you won't believe is – "

His eye keeps catching on passing figures.

Everyone who passes – doctors, nurses, orderlies, patients, family – he's certain he can see flickers of danger in the eyes of even people he recognizes.

" – but the article would have to be – "

 _Which one of you is watching me? Waiting for me to screw up?_

"Derek." Mark frowns. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Of course I heard." Derek drums his fingers on his chart. "It's, uh, great work."

That's a safe answer; Mark's stories are generally victorious if not self-aggrandizing and when his friend nods in satisfaction Derek knows he chose correctly.

"Pre-op," he reminds Mark before another story can begin, and he walks down the hall mercifully alone.

Or as alone as he can be, today.

..

"You know I don't like _Mr. Schaff_ ," his patient says with a genial smile. He's sitting on the exam table for all the world like it's a boardroom table instead, somehow commanding the room despite wearing a pale blue gown instead of a suit.

"Franklin," Derek corrects himself. "I did know that."

"Frankie, don't correct the doctor," Schaff's wife scolds fondly. "You'll have to forgive him, Dr. Shepherd. He's not used to not being the smartest one in the room."

"I'm never the smartest one when you're in the room," Schaff tells his wife, and she beams; Derek gets the sense this is a familiar routine.

Keeping his breath steady, he tries not to wonder what the boss has in store for the man on the table – or the man with the chart, currently examining the man on the table.

"If you have any questions – "

"Oh, I know he's in good hands," Schaff's wife smiles broadly. "We've read all about you and what you've done, Dr. Shepherd. And so young, too."

"Young!" Derek forces himself to play along with the mood of the room, though it's more gallows than Vaudeville on his end, feeling his voice catch in his throat.

 _Be normal. Act normal. That's how we get out of this._

"That's flattering, Mrs. Schaff … but maybe I need to check your vision as well."

Dolores Schaff laughs. "It's Dolores, I told you. And Frankie …." She turns her her husband. "Be careful, I might leave you for this handsome fellow."

"You should, Dolly," Schaff smiles at her. "Like I've been saying for thirty years … I don't deserve you."

"Dr. Shepherd is married, though." Dolores indicates his wedding band with one manicured finger. "Aren't you, darling?"

"I am." Derek forces his breath to regulate. "I'm married."

"And she's a surgeon too," Schaff adds, "didn't you say? Your wife? Operates on babies before they're born."

Schaff says it to his wife with a note of pride. Despite the fear, the panic inside him, Derek can spare a corner of his mind to be impressed with Schaff: he remembers details, and uses them to make connections.

"Yes." Derek nods stiffly.

 _Be normal. Act normal._

"Here, in this hospital?" Dolores looks around pleasantly. "I'd love to meet her."

"Now, Dolly, she probably has patients of her own." Schaff gives him a benevolent smile.

"Actually, she's not in today," Derek says.

 _Why did I say that?_

"I hope she's not ill."

Derek smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way. They took the time to create a false police report about a mugging that never happened, but couldn't have handed him a cover story about Addison?

"I suppose even surgeons need a day off sometimes," Dolly muses. "I hope it's a restful one."

 _Restful._

He'd laugh.

But he might cry.

..

She's free but she's not.

The boss isn't touching her. No one is; Addison is walking down the steps to the basement alone, her captor's footsteps so silent behind her she might not even be there at all.

She's untouched, but captive. Trapped, and each step lower underground feels closer to danger.

Which is strange, considering the rest of the brownstone hasn't exactly felt safe – not since she opened the door last night thinking she was welcoming Mark.

But the basement is – underground. Obviously. Paint and furniture, color schemes and a decorator, can't change that fact.

 _Semi-finished_ , that's what the basement was when they moved in. Realtor talk.

Six months later, it was _finished._

Her heart is thumping now as she's pushed along the polished floors.

It looks … the same: the load-bearing columns they had to work around, the maple filing cabinets for paperwork. The open door to the laundry room, white and cheerful, with its ironing board and the shelves of products Rosa selects and orders herself.

 _What were you expecting, Addie? Bodies?_

The boss is still pushing her, so she walks on trembling legs, not sure if she's relieved or more frightened to see it all looking so … normal.

They pause at a dark wood bookshelf. It's from their first apartment, a little too shabby for display but sturdy and broad. Medical texts line the bottom shelves, some old reference books. There are framed photographs on the top shelf.

The boss picks one up – Addison, Derek, and Mark. Graduation. Pale blue robes with black velvet, matching hats. They look criminally young; she stares at the youthful face that she's certain can't resemble her own.

"How sweet," she says, her tone suggesting otherwise.

Addison watches with wary confusion as she moves the bookcase – _it's heavy, she's strong, she's too strong_.

Why is she moving it, though, there's nothing behind it but blank wall.

 _Oh, god._

Except there's not.

"After you," the boss says, smiling pleasantly.

..

With Schaff in the hands of the carefully selected radiologist who'll monitor his pre-op scans, Derek has a moment to retreat to his office.

It was too much for him, the pre-op room with the airy chatter of his patient and his wife. The constant thrum of fear, of wishing he could grab the collar of Schaff's pale blue hospital gown and scream: _You're in danger. I'm in danger. Run._

If only he could run.

He's free, but he's trapped, frozen on the ergonomic chair Addison picked out – _I don't have back problems_ , he reminded her, and she said, _let's keep it that way_ , and he relented even though the chair cost than more than his first car.

Or his third, come to think of it.

The chair turned out to be absurdly comfortable, as if molded to him, and long nights reviewing scans and looking for signs in patient files could disappear could disappear into its supportively curved lines.

Now it feels less supportive than claustrophobic.

And he feels useless. More than useless.

His hand shaking, he picks up the phone.

 _Be normal. Act normal._

This could be normal. He could be phoning for labs, seeking a consult.

They won't know – his hand hovers over the button he has to push for an outside line.

It's one button.

Alone in his office, one button, one quick call.

 _Someone help us._

Breathless, his pulse pounding in his ears, he lowers his finger and pushes the button.

..

In the _finished_ basement that still retains sufficient hint of dark moisture to remind her they're subterranean, Addison hesitates, her heart loud in her ears.

She doesn't move.

A yawning cavern, something behind it she can't see, and she hesitates.

The air shifts and she feels rather than hears the boss move toward her – silent, always silent, but so fast.

Before she has time to process it, another voice interrupts.

"Boss? We've got something."

Addison turns around at the sound of it, to see the two men looming in the doorway. One of them has his hand resting on the phone clipped to his waist; the other – the one she's begun to think of as the New One – fondling the head of the pistol at his hip.

"Is it – "

"I don't know."

She listens to the words going back and forth, half-finished sentences and clipped thoughts. She's trained to learn things, to hear what's underneath what people say. _It hurts_ , they say, and she figures out why.

She can't figure it out now. Her brain is slow, the downrush of fizzled adrenaline, the constant baseline of fear. And hungry, though it feels shameful to admit, because even though she has no idea what they're saying, she knows what they _could_ be saying, and it galvanizes her.

"Is it Derek?" Her voice cracks a little, her throat dry. "Is he all right?"

"Shut up," the New One says without looking at her. "Boss, should we …"

"Go," the boss says, nodding. "And you – " she gestures at the other intruder, the one who isn't the Taller One now, not since the shorter comparison was murdered in front of her.

Not in front of her. Behind her.

 _He was trying to tell me something. I still don't know what._

And when his head was blown apart inches behind her own they collapsed together.

"You, take her." The boss inclines her sharp chin toward Addison.

"Wait," she pleads, "just tell me – "

"You don't get a last request, Dr. Shepherd," the boss interrupts coolly, holding up a gloved hand. "Not yet, anyway. And you should be grateful for that. Take her," she repeats, turning back to the taller intruder, "before I forget my manners."

"Just tell me if Derek is all right?" Addison barters, not caring if it's stupid, as she's shoved up the stairs from the basement. "Please. Just tell me."

"You don't give up, do you?" He sounds bored, rather than impressed. He pushes her carelessly against the cement wall as he pushes the deadbolt at the top of the stairs – and she's confused, isn't the deadbolt on the other side? – but has no time to think about it when the door opens and he's dragging her through.

"I can walk," she says.

"You can shut up," he responds, then suddenly stops, his fingers digging into her arm. "Or maybe you can't."

He holds her there, in the foyer, without speaking.

Her heart thumps.

She doesn't like the way he's looking at her. His eyes are glittering through the mask.

The only sound now is breathing.

Hers, and his.

She's frozen as he reaches out and hooks two gloved fingers in the belt loops of her jeans, uncuffed hands dangling at her sides.

Useless.

Her heart is beating fast enough that she's certain he can feel her pulse. He pulls her forward, her bare feet skidding a little on the floor.

"You have a big mouth," he says, almost affectionately. "Seems like you could put it to better use."

Bile rises in her throat; she couldn't speak even if she wanted to.

 _Where is everyone? Where is everyone else?_

"What do you know," he says, an unsettling smile stretching the mouth-hole of his mask. "Looks like you _can_ be quiet when you want to."

He laughs in a nasty way, and releases her. She's exhaling on a sigh of relief when suddenly she feels his hand in her hair, gripping hard enough for her eyes to water. He drags her head back, exposing her throat. The angle strains her neck; she has to strain to see anything but the ceiling.

"Do you think she cares what I do with you, as long as you're in decent enough shape for the mission? Do you?" he repeats when she doesn't answer, pulling harder on her hair, his mouth close enough to her hear that she can feel the heat of his breath.

"No," she whispers.

His fingers tighten; her back arches to try to take some of the pressure off her neck. He laughs again, and his enjoyment of her discomfort is far worse than the strain on her muscles.

"Right answer. I guess all those awards aren't just for show," he says. "You're smarter than you look."

Abruptly, he lets her go.

She's dizzy as she forces her way upright, which seems to amuse him more; he grabs her arm before she can fall and pushes her through the archway to the kitchen.

Her heart thumps as he unhooks metal cuffs from his belt, fastening one loop around her wrist.

Selfishly, shamefully, she no longer hopes Derek escapes.

She wants him back here, with her.

Ashamed, she draws her legs in to her chest, resting her head on her denim-covered knees.

 _Stay alive, Derek. I need you._

..

"Derek."

The receiver clatters from his hand onto the desk, jarring a vertical stack of journals. He sorts it with shaking hands, hoping Mark can't hear his wildly beating heart.

He's faint with the knowledge of what he almost did.

What Mark interrupted.

"You startled me," Derek says finally, unnecessarily.

"Sorry." Mark leans against the open doorway, coffee cup in one hand. "Were you on the phone?"

"No." Derek glances around the office, hoping it's clear to … anyone, that he wasn't on the phone.

"Derek … you're acting a little weird," Mark says casually, pulling his blackberry from the pocket of his lab coat with his other hand and thumbing the wheel on the side of it.

"No, I'm not." Derek swallows around the lump in his throat. He reaches for Schaff's chart, closed on his desk. "I'm just working."

How can he walk the balance between _figure it out and help us_ and _don't notice anything that they'll take out on Addison_?

He thinks about what the boss showed him and his stomach clenches again. _Addie, whatever they're doing, don't be a hero. Don't give them any more reason to hurt you … either of you._

Mark looks at him, and shrugs. "Whatever." Then he pauses. "Addison tell you I stopped by last night?"

Derek's mouth feels as filmy as the pink carbon copy police report in the pocket of his trench coat. He's gripping Schaff's chart, every muscle aching at the force it takes to hold it with false calm. It's like that class Addison dragged him to a couple of years ago at her gym, where they held little balls and bolsters and hardly moved at all and yet he was sore the next day from the strain.

The pain of doing nothing at all. Like the _nothing_ he's been able to do to help his wife.

Like Mark's visit last night. Restrained, threatened with weapons, watching Addison costumed and painted and forced to convince Mark everything was fine.

He shudders at the memory. And then again at Mark's question: did Addison tell him he stopped by last night?

 _What's the right answer?_

They're tracking him, he knows. But they can't see him. Or can they? For a moment he imagines staring up at a camera, shaking his fist: _why couldn't you have given me answers?_

He just nods.

He's too tired to read the expression on Mark's face: offended that Derek didn't come to the door too? Something else?

"I was sleeping," he recites.

"Yeah, she told me." Mark pauses. "Hey … you know where she is?"

"What do you mean?"

He kicks himself as soon as he says it. _What do you mean? What could he mean?_

Mark just takes a sip of coffee. "I was looking for her, before. She's not in her office."

"She called out," Derek says.

"Addison never calls out."

He already told the Schaffs Addison was home. Sick? They asked if she was sick – did he say yes? He's the one who feels sick now, remembering how hard it is to keep up a chain of lies. Say it once, fine. Say it a few times, it starts to feel true. But what if you can't remember what you said the last time?

What if they never meant to give him the information he would need to pull this off? What if all they did was give him enough rope to hang himself?

"Derek?"

No, they did say something. The words fill his mind like truth.

"She woke up with a fever." This will work; Derek knows Mark knows Addison wasn't supposed to be off today. And he knows she wouldn't miss work, not unless she was a threat to her vulnerable patients. "She, uh, she popped a glove the other day handling a newborn with streptococcus."

"Oh, yeah?" Mark frowns. "She didn't mention it."

Derek gives him the most neutral look he can.

"She okay?" Mark asks.

 _No. I don't know. And it's killing me not to know._

"She's okay," Derek says, willing his voice to stay calm. "You know Addison."

"Yeah." Mark's expression is fond. "She's probably going stir crazy trapped in that house."

He has the same feeling he had in the exam room with Schaff: he'd laugh – if he didn't think he'd cry instead.

"Right." Derek glances at his blackberry. "I have some paperwork, so if you don't – "

"Go ahead." Mark waves him off in a friendly manner. "Oh, I'm off at two," he adds. "I can stop by, bring Addison some soup, if she – "

"No," Derek interjects, his heart suddenly pounding in his throat. " … I'll be off before then," he adds weakly, hoping it doesn't sound like the excuse it is. "I'm leaving after … my patient. I'll bring her soup."

Mark studies him for a moment.

"Wonton," Mark says finally, "from Waterfall Shanghai. She said it did the trick when she had strep last year."

"Wonton," Derek repeats. "Yes. Fine. Mark – I need to work."

"I'll see you later?"

 _I have no idea._

..

The grandfather clock in the parlor chimes, and she raises bleary eyes at the sound.

Nine times. Ten.

Ten o'clock.

Ten o'clock, and they're not the only ones in the kitchen now.

The other intruder, the New One, is standing on the threshold.

Does he have news?

He's talking to the taller one, the one who brought her up from the basement, but she can't make out what they're saying.

Ten o'clock **.** Derek should be finishing up soon – even Derek, who always spends as much time with his patients in pre-op as he can. As his schedule allows. _A good surgeon can learn as much in pre-op as he does in the OR._ Dr. Douglass. She remembers Derek repeating that to her, and that's –

Not important. Not now. It's just that memories are sliding liquid through her mind, filling in all the holes that fear left behind.

Derek should be back soon. She needs to see him. Needs to his face.

His face now – not his face last night.

The one she leaned over in his bed, deceit on her lips.

His trusting, gentle face.

His tired, bruised face.

 _Addie – did they say anything else? Downstairs? Did you find out any more about what they want?_

She lied.

The boss's words are haunting her: _You're on our team now, Dr. Shepherd._

But the boss is wrong. Of course she's wrong.

Addison may have lied, but only to protect Derek. Only to protect him.

She remembers his reaction, though, when she screamed, when she let him believe she was being tortured.

 _I was protecting you then, too. You needed to leave. I know you didn't want to leave me, but you needed to leave._

And now that he's gone she feels his absence like a missing limb, like the hole in her chest where her heartbeat is counting out every moment curled against the wall, her wrist chained.

On the floor.

She's spent more time on the floor in the last half a day than she has in … she's not sure how long. The kitchen floor.

 _Why the kitchen? Why are we in here?_

With her free hand she traces the floorboards.

A hundred years ago, a woman lay on this floor and smiled up at her husband, laughing, drunk on love and new homeownership. _It's our home_ , he whispered to her, and she wrapped herself around him – wrists linked around his neck, thighs around his hips, and drew him down to her.

 _I'm always home when I'm with you._ That's what she thought, when their bodies joined, when they christened the first floor of their new brownstone like they promised themselves they would at the closing. She thought it, but didn't say it. Maybe it was too mushy, too Hallmark, and they were too adult by then. Too married. Not too married to _think_ it, but too much to say it.

She ponders the difference now around the thickness of tears in her throat. A few years before that, she would have said it. A few months before _this_ , would she have thought it?

Her stomach clenches.

She should have said it, then.

She should have done a lot of things.

She should have seen whatever was in the basement; she came so close.

Thinking about what she didn't see in the basement nauseates her. The hole. What's behind it? The boiler, the – furnace? Vaguely, she remembers the realtor smiling, exchanging a look with Derek, amused at her confusion, that she didn't know the details.

It was a little annoying at the time. It was sexist. And now it's herself she's annoyed with, because she still has no idea what's actually behind that door.

Not that a boiler or a furnace or whatever the hell heats the brownstone would matter right now. They did something to it. They must have.

The yawning hole she never got to breach somehow seals it for her, in a way that every brutal and terrifying moment with the intruders hasn't quite done.

This is _their_ home now.

Not hers.

Not Derek's.

Not anymore.

* * *

 _To be continued. Thank you so much for reading - please review and keep me on the straight and narrow when it comes to updates. I am so grateful for your encouragement and I love hearing what you think!_

..


	17. Friday, 10:06 am

**A/N:** Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter - they're much appreciated, and I'm so glad you're enjoying the story. This is one I can only write in daylight because, let's be real, it freaks me out. _But_ if you keep up being awesome reviewers, I'm committing to updating this story once a week. It might be more than that, especially if I'm on a roll. But once a week it is. Keep me honest. And I hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

 _Friday, 10:06 a.m._

* * *

They're gone.

Her fear feels almost naive now, as she sits alone against the kitchen wall.

They don't have to do anything. Not when fear is enough to keep her quiet.

Ashamed, she curls into the tightest shape she can, like a child trying to hide before they understand they can still be seen.

It's illusory, all of it.

Alone, there's the illusion of safety – but it's just that, an illusion.

The presence of the intruders, though, brings the illusion that she can figure out something – anything – that might help them.

She rests her head against her knees, the solid feeling of her own bones pressing together something almost comforting.

It's quiet.

Very quiet.

Just the smooth near-silent hum of the electronics and her own ragged breaths.

And then ... she's not alone anymore.

Just like that.

But it's not who she was expecting.

In one swift motion, before she can react, her handcuffs are unlocked from the radiator pipe with a loud click.

"Get up," the boss says.

Addison blinks up at her, feeling slow and stupid. It takes a little while how to sort out _get up_ from the curled, confined position. With some effort she manages to pull herself to her knees, using the radiator to assist her, and then to her feet.

The boss watches her the entire time, looking minimally interested. She doesn't help.

Silently, the boss points to the empty chair and Addison lowers herself into it.

 _My chair. I picked it out. My kitchen, my home._

At least it used to be.

"Look at me," the boss orders quietly.

She's too tired to protest, too worried that Derek will feel the consequences if she pushes them, so she obeys without question and sees a flash of _something_ in the boss's cold eyes that she doesn't want to question.

"Dr. Shepherd, I've extended certain … courtesies to you."

Addison sees the boss's gaze flicker down her body now.

To the jeans she offered her at the foot of the staircase before the aborted trip to whatever they've done in the basement.

"Would you agree?" the boss asks, her tone disturbingly polite.

 _Courtesies._ It's almost amusing.

Almost.

"Yes," she says, forcing her tone into a neutral one.

 _Just go along with it. Do it for Derek, at least until you're together again. At least until you've seen him._

The boss nods. "Those courtesies were dependent on your understanding of the … seriousness of this situation." She pauses. "Perhaps I overestimated that understanding."

She's silent for a moment and Addison is unsure of the response she's seeking. She just blinks, an actor on a stage who's forgotten her cue.

Now the boss's gaze is sliding to Addison's right hand. It's resting on her lap, heavy with the unattached handcuff. She's still chained, just not chained _to_ anything, and the relief that comes with being only half-confined is frightening in and of itself.

Her right hand, though.

The one the boss never hurt.

The one Derek thinks she did.

"I understand," Addison says finally, a little faintly.

"Good." And then she smiles, disconcertingly. "We're counting on you, Dr. Shepherd. You're an important member of our team."

"I'm not on your team," she retorts before she can stop herself, and then inhales on a mouthful of cold fear – the boss is suddenly standing.

She's ten feet tall, her shadow everything Addison can see.

 _Stay calm, stay calm._

She chants the mantra but the message hasn't reached her pounding heart. She's leaning back in the chair instinctually as the boss towers over her, invading her space.

Addison waits for taunts, for some kind of punishment, but the boss's words are both unexpected and delivered in an almost pleasant tone.

"Would you like to see your husband, Dr. Shepherd?"

"Yes," she says immediately.

 _God, yes._

The boss has withdrawn a device that looks like a larger phone, all screen, and she clicks a few buttons until an image appears.

Addison draws a sharp breath.

 _Derek._

There he is, black and white but it's definitely him, and the miniature version of him – in his lab coat, leaning against the nurse's desk holding a closed chart, so very much in his element, brings tears to her eyes.

"Here he is," the boss says, and then she click another button and zooms in on the calendar at the nurse's desk, with today's date.

Addison nods, relieved when she zooms out again and she can see her husband's face.

The calendar may prove the picture was taken today.

But she didn't actually need to see it to know it was taken today. The Derek in the picture, the small black-and-white version of her husband – she knows him. She can see _today_ in the shape of his shoulders, the bruising on his face even though it's expertly covered with makeup.

She can recognize him. She can see beneath the illusion … and maybe that's the one weapon their captors don't have.

..

"Still hanging around, huh? I thought you had the morning off." Mark props his hips against the counter like it's any casual workday. Like it's normal.

 _That was the plan. That was when I was going to sleep here._

… things change.

"Actually, I have the afternoon off."

The lie slides smoothly to his lips. He can't even remember right now whether it's something he was ordered to say or something that he thought of himself. He's fairly certain if he were to access the schedule right now, he'd find that he was correct.

Their captors seem to be able to make anything they want.

To do anything they want.

To make _them_ do things, as he stands here now in the hospital that should be his space, that should be sacred, but it's become enemy territory as fast as their home did. He has one hand on the carafe of coffee in the attendings' lounge, the other clamped around the blackberry in his pocket.

"Ah." Mark nods. "Well, let me know how Addison is when you see her."

Derek nods wordlessly.

"I can stop by when I'm done here, if you need – "

"We don't," Derek says. He busies himself with his blackberry. "Thank you, though. She just needs to rest."

Mark shrugs affably, though his expression is a little curious.

"No problem."

 _So many problems._

He needs Mark to help him but he also needs Mark to leave. Mark is interfering with _normal._

He looks quickly at his friend before he turns back to the carafe. What would Mark say if he knew? Mark, who took the same oath they did?

He doesn't know what their captors want.

But he's not stupid. He knows enough to know it's nothing contained in the oath he swore.

All he can do, as his heart pounds, is hope he hasn't done it yet, inadvertently.

Done it as a pawn.

"Here." Mark shoves a mug toward Derek. "Make yourself useful and fill me up too."

He does.

For just a second, their eyes meet.

 _Mark would help us. If he could, Mark would help us._

"Mark."

His old friend looks up, a little confused. They're standing close enough together that Derek could whisper.

How many words would it take?

Three? _We need help._

 _Help us._ Two.

 _Help._

Just _help._

He inhales.

Before he can speak the blackberry in his pocket buzzes against his hand, startling him so much his other hand jostles, sending a wave of coffee over the side.

Mark curses, pulling back his hand.

"Sorry!" Derek is turning on the faucet of cold water, watching Mark shake out his palm.

"It's fine," Mark says. "You're a lousy waitress, I've known this for years."

This would ordinarily trigger some reminiscence, the summers they spent together waiting tables and caddying at whichever country club was hiring.

The gawky teenager who took those jobs is miles away. He's in a different universe.

Derek is here, now, drawing the blackberry out of his pocket and starting to realize with dawning horror that it's interruption was no coincidence.

He doesn't recognize the sender.

He clicks it open anyway, something compelling him, and then all the air leaves the room with a sudden rush.

"Derek?"

Mark is staring at him, breaking his reverie. "What's so fascinating on there?"

"Nothing." Derek pockets the device, his heart pounding. "It's, uh, it's Nancy." He forces himself toward _normal._ "I don't know how she runs a practice when she sends so many emails," he says, the words sounding hollow and forced.

But they seem to be effective enough for Mark.

"Yeah, maybe if you responded more often." Mark looks amused. "Then she wouldn't have to chase me down."

"Right. I'm going to respond, actually." Derek gestures toward one of the couches and Mark nods, lifts his mug in a sort of toast, and leaves him in the lounge.

Alone, he sinks onto the cushion, some kind of nubbly industrial kind of fabric that feels rough under his hands.

He opens his blackberry again.

The message is gone.

The image it attached is gone.

Like it was never sent at all.

Except he can see it anyway, stamped on the inside of his eyes: Addison, wearing his old t-shirt, leaning against the kitchen wall. It's shot from above and it's blurry, but it's unmistakable even though she looks uncharacteristically small, her head resting on one hand. The other hand is wearing a metal cuff.

He scans the room but he's alone.

Alone except for the images in his head and the terrifying realization that there's no escape.

None.

 _Addison, hold on._

..

"What do you think of the picture?" the boss asks, almost pleasantly.

Addison isn't sure what to say.

"Here. Perhaps you'd like to see more." And the boss is flicking some more buttons, zooming out. One of her long fingers skims over the screen.

What is she –

She's pointing at things.

Not things, people.

Addison watching her indicate a stoop-shouldered older doctor, a young woman with a resident tag and a waterfall of braids. A nurse with a stiff-looking perm. An orderly pushing a cart.

"What are you showing me?" Addison asks, her voice shaking a little despite herself.

"I want you to feel secure," the boss says, smiling disarmingly. "I don't want you to worry that your husband will try anything ... ill-advised. You see, he's in good hands," the boss says.

 _In good hands._

Addison feels the prickle of gooseflesh on her arms.

No.

It can't be.

"Those aren't your people," she says unsteadily. "They're – people who work at the hospital."

 _They're our people._

"Perhaps," the boss says coolly. "But you can't be sure, can you? You can't _truly_ be certain … about anyone's loyalties."

Addison doesn't respond.

"Who's this?" She points to a nurse in pink scrubs with shaggy dark hair. "I said, _who's this_?"

"Anita," Addison says, not sure why she's responding. "She's … an RN …she lives in the Bronx."

 _Addison, what are you saying?_

"You know her well, then?"

"No. I don't know."

 _Hey, Dr. Shepherd, I know my shift is over but I wanted to check on Mrs. Willis one more time. Her numbered looked fine, but I know she was scared about the procedure._

"You know her work?" The boss pauses. "Does she have a family?"

 _Would you believe it, three kids and I've never had the chicken pox? I had to get vaccinated in nursing school._

"How well do you know her, Dr. Shepherd?" the boss continues, resting a leather-clad hand next to the screen. "How well can you know anyone?"

She snaps the device closed. "People surprise us, don't they?"

Silence. Addison could swear the ticking of the living room clock is audible in here.

"And you," the boss continues, turning her gaze to Addison. "Don't tell me you've never surprised yourself."

It's a fight to keep her face neutral as she remembers leaning over Derek's body in bed last night – well, earlier this morning – his concerned eyes searching hers.

 _He was trying to comfort me and I lied to his face._

Her husband's expression when he thought she was being tortured. When he thought her hand was at risk.

She still wants to believe that was her decision. That she was protecting her husband, her home – fighting for them. Not that the boss was moving her around like just another chess piece.

It's not a game.

It can't be a game.

She glances back at the blank screen of the boss's device.

 _Derek, hang on._

Why did she show it to her?

"It won't do to fight, Dr. Shepherd," the boss says, her tone so calm, almost _gentle_. "You won't win. All you'll do," and her gaze drifts again to Addison's hand, where it's clenched in her lap, "is cause pain."

..

The walk from the attendings lounge back to the privacy wing is endless, a tunnel of shadows where every face that turns to him in greeting – or ignores him – is in fact watching him. Watching him closely enough to burn.

The enemy.

Spies.

Emblems of how hopeless he feels.

"Dr. Shepherd! You're back again. You've missed all the fun."

Franklin Schaff is all smiles while Derek forces himself to stay calm. Not just calm – jovial. His vision greys at the edges as he pushes his lips into his best imitation of a smile.

"Let's see if we can't make a little fun of our own," Derek says.

His lips feel thick, rubbery. Can they hear his voice?

Dolores Schaff beams at him. "Oh, Frankie, he's got your number. I knew he was a smart one."

Derek flips through the scans, the notes from the carefully selected radiologist.

"Does it look all right?" Dolores asks anxiously.

"Now, Dolly, give the man a moment," Franklin scolds her, his tone affectionate.

Derek tries to focus.

Here in the separate wing, with its added security and passwords, machines come to the patient wherever possible.

To make him comfortable.

Except that nothing about this is comfortable.

Not the images, and not his own heartbeat loud in the small room.

He studies the scans but what he sees is Addison's face, pale and tired, resting on her hand. Her hair, loose and wavy, covering half her expression.

The handcuff covering her wrist.

He left her there.

She told him to, but he left her there.

"Dr. Shepherd?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. – Dolores," he says quickly. "It will just take me a moment to review the images."

He hears Franklin reproving her in that same fond tone, he sees a glint of metal, like a wedding ring, like a handcuff, and then everything blurs again.

He can't focus.

He can't do anything.

He needs to turn off his brain.

He's a neurosurgeon but despite what most people might say he's humble, humble in this one way. _There's a lot we don't know about the brain_ , that's what Kleinfeld used to say when he was a resident.

Turn it on, turn it off, fill it with information to slow down the rush of cortisol threatening to choke him.

 _Don't think._

He looks at the scans and now he sees Addison's hand instead, her every-inch-familiar but still remarkable right hand, and he sees black leather and he's nauseated.

He forces himself away from it.

 _Don't think; memorize._

Addison's hand neutralizes to _hand_ as he makes himself recite the carpal bones, one at a time:

Inhale. _S_ _caphoid_ _._

Exhale. _Lunate._

He tunes out the Schaffs.

Inhale. _Triquetral._

He tunes out their captor's mocking voices.

He's in medical school instead.

He's in the library that smells of highlighters and sneaker rubber, potato chip crumbs on the table from forbidden snacking. They do what they can to keep going. They do what they can to stay alive.

Exhale. _Pisiform._

Addison is laughing next to him with outrage, fluffy bangs over eyes so blue in the dim library light that they don't seem real. She's shaking her head, but not at him. _Mark, everything is about sex with you_. His best friend is shrugging, unapologetic, and Derek is spreading his hands between them. _As long as we memorize them, what's the big deal?_

Inhale. _Trapezium._

Exhale. _Trapezoid._

They're holding index cards and laughing, cross-legged in their underwear on his old flannel comforter. They're alone now, and they're laughing. _Some lovers try positions that they can't handle._ He's too distracted to learn except she's assured him this is the best way to learn. _Every time we get a question right, we can … do something,_ that's her offer, and he's not going to turn it down. She'll even use Mark's mnemonic, which he knows his friend didn't actually make up. _Some lovers try positions that they can't handle._ They snicker at it, like children, like lovers. _Scaphoid_ _,_ _lunate_ _,_ _triquetral_ _,_ _pisiform_ _,_ _trapezium_ _,_ _trapezoid_ _,_ _capitate_ _,_ _hamate_ _._ Addison laughs and claps her hands.

Addison's hands …

He forces himself to breathe.

Inhale. _Capitate._

Exhale. _Hamate._

"Dr. Shepherd?"

"Yes."

"I'm no doctor, but I gotta tell you, when my CFO looks too long at the paperwork I start to get a little nervous." Schaff gestures toward the folder of scans. "Don't tell my Board," he adds with a conspiratorial smile.

Derek forces a smile. Does he remember how to smile?

"Should I be nervous, doctor?"

 _Yes. God, yes._

"No, of course not." Derek closes the folder, pushing his lips into that strange upward curve again.

The blur lessens and he's in the same private room again, Franklin Schaff seated on the exam table, his wife hanging onto his arm.

Dolores exhales audibly at Derek's words. "So everything's all right?"

 _Nothing is all right._

He looks at the closed folder of scans. Their interpretation is all that's left between him and leaving. Between him and the home that's become a war zone.

Between him and his wife.

Franklin and Dolores Schaff are both watching him expectantly, their hands folded together. Trusting. Trusting him.

"Yes," Derek says. "Everything's all right."

..

"You've been such a good team player," the boss says, either ignoring or enjoying Addison's discomfort at her phrasing. "You've earned a question."

Addison's heart speeds up.

A question.

There's only one thing she needs to know:

"Is my husband all right?" she asks immediately.

The boss shakes her head. "Oh, you _amuse_ me, Dr. Shepherd."

Addison is confused.

"Of all the questions in the world, you choose that one."

"You said I could ask a question."

"I did indeed say you could ask a question." The boss raises her eyebrows. "There are _so_ many questions you could ask. So much information you could seek. Surely you're wondering about the mission. About your role in it. About what's coming next."

"I am, but – "

"But you chose instead to ask about your husband. Is he _all right_ ," and she pronounces the words like they amuse her. "You know, it would be sweet if it weren't so disappointing."

Her expression changes to a serious one, lightning quick, and Addison braces herself.

"You've disappointed me," she repeats.

"And you didn't answer my question." Addison feels daring, lightheaded. "Is he all right? Did you – did they - ?"

She stops talking.

"Your husband is the same as he was when he left for the hospital," the boss says coolly. "Unaware of the mission and yet … carrying it out rather nicely so far."

Addison shudders.

But … _the same as he was when he left._

He's okay.

Neither of them is okay, how can they be _okay_ , but he's okay.

Relief floods her, muscles shaking as adrenaline drains through her system.

She has the absurd desire to thank the boss – thank this woman who is the architect of all their pain and fear the last endless twelve hours of her life.

 _Manners, Addison._

Before she can speak, the boss does first.

"Dr. Shepherd."

She glances up.

"As you know, we disclosed the next step of the mission to you, but not to your husband."

Oh, she's aware.

"Why?"

Addison is confused. "What do you mean?"

" _Why_ ," the boss repeats. "Why do you think you've been given more information than your husband?"

 _Because you're a sociopath?_

She doesn't say anything out loud.

"Shall I tell you?"

She nods, feeling like a puppet on a string. _You're going to tell me anyway._

"Because your husband is not prepared to know more. It's beyond him. He's too black and white, too … _limited_ in his thinking."

Derek, limited? She feels a flash of defensiveness, and even amusement. He's the smartest person she knows.

 _Second smartest, Addie,_ that's what he would say.

 _You're smarter_ , they used to joke in medical school, their own play on those couples who'd bicker over who was cuter. Their priorities were different. Their heads were on straight. _No, you're smarter._

"Let me be clear, Dr. Shepherd. I'm not suggesting he doesn't have certain … intellectual capabilities. Ones that are quite useful to the mission. But he has limitations as well."

Addison doesn't answer.

"Nuance, Dr. Shepherd. He doesn't understand _nuance_. Not like you, with your … _flexible_ moral compass."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks before she can stop herself.

She finds herself bracing for a blow – physical, verbal, it hardly matters anymore.

But all the boss does is smile that disconcerting, predatory smile.

"What it _means_ , Dr. Shepherd, is that you, unlike your husband … are like us."

"I'm not like you." Her voice shakes.

"Oh, we've been over this. It's so _boring_ to repeat myself." The boss looks somewhere between annoyed and amused, like Addison is troublesome child. "Flexible, Dr. Shepherd. Flexibility grows more important when one's secrets are … closer to the surface than one might think."

Addison's heart pounds.

 _She's baiting you. Don't respond._

The boss lifts an eyebrow. "Or perhaps I should say … closer than you might hope."

* * *

 _To be continued, on time. Keep me on schedule by sharing your awesome thoughts. Make it worthwhile to write a story that, frankly, creeps me out! And thank you, as always, for reading and reviewing._


	18. Friday, 11:56 am

_**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews on the last chapter! I was a little stuck on moving this story forward, but here's the next chapter, and forward we go. And we're just a few minutes before sunset, which is good - because you know I don't like writing this story in the dark. I suppose the whole story gets a content warning, but I'm going to reiterate it for this chapter.**_

* * *

 _Friday, 11:56 a.m._

* * *

 _Secrets._

The boss is manipulating her, she knows this, but she also knows she's weak from fear, her heart and all her muscles working overtime since the door burst open last night and this nightmare began.

But still.

Now the boss is just _looking_ at her with those cold eyes. She's waiting for something, but Addison isn't sure what.

"Boss?"

They both turn to see two masked men in the doorway.

She only recognizes one of them.

 _How many of you are there?_

Before she can count in her head, before she can panic any more than usual, the two men have crossed the room – swift and menacing, and she shrinks back in her chair instinctually.

Their voices are muffled, but the tone alarms her.

"What's going on?" She hears her voice rise. "Is Derek okay?"

The boss stands up and looks down at Addison like she's a bug.

A bug on her back.

Then she turns to the intruder Addison recognized, before. The one she's been thinking of as _the taller one_ since last night, even though there's no _shorter one_ to compare him to.

Not alive, anyway. Not anymore.

"Keep her quiet, please," the boss says. Her voice is calm, even polite.

And then she's gone.

Fast and quiet, like every step Addison has seen her take. She can't make out the direction, not past the kitchen door. Is she going to back to whatever's in the basement?

Her heart speeds up, making her feel faint.

The taller intruder ignores her. She stands up, no longer able to sit.

"What's going on? Please just _tell_ me."

He doesn't.

She takes one more step toward him, not even sure why, just desperate to know.

And he shoves her against the wall.

She's caught off guard, too fast to brace herself and the back of her skull thumps its hard surface.

She inhales on a cry of pain, not wanting to satisfy the intruder, but she can tell he's distracted – too distracted to enjoy the discomfort he's inflicted, and that's not like him.

A gong interrupts the silence, from the living room. The old grandfather clock.

"What is it?" she asks. "Something's going on."

"Shut up."

She counts the gongs to try to calm herself. Twelve in all. They fill her head and then she's talking again even though she knows she shouldn't.

"Did something happen to Derek?" her voice rises, she can't stop herself even as he shoves her again, a hand at the base of her throat.

"Something's going to happen to you if you don't _shut up._ "

"Johnson."

The intruder turns at his name, Addison still somewhere between surprised and confused first that he has a name at all, and second at how _ordinary_ it is.

Even when nothing else about this house is ordinary, not anymore."She wants you," the New One says.

The taller intruder gives her a look of contempt and one last shove against the wall.

"Keep her quiet," he instructs the New One, who nods.

Addison shrinks back against the wall instinctually as the other intruder approaches. She's realizing how tired she is, too tired for bravado.

"Pissing him off again, huh?" the New One asks. He doesn't seem particularly angry about it.

Addison doesn't say anything. Having him this close is making her heart thump. He doesn't shove her, though, or touch her at all.

He rests a leather-clad hand on the wall next to her and she sees that same hand, last night, touching her. Resting on her stomach. It could have been worse, _god, it could have been so much worse_.

He steps back, a smirk visible in the cutouts of his mask.

"Give me your hands," he says.

"No."

She resists instinctually again when he reaches for her, nerve endings tingling. Somehow she's faster – just the first time, any sense of relief gone when he easily grabs her wrists the second time.

She forces breath in, and then out.

 _Stay calm._

"Tell me what happened," she proposes. "Please. What's happening at the hospital?"

He looks from her captured hands to her face, contempt in his voice when he speaks. "Do you think this is funny?"

Her hands are flat against the wall now, the pressure on her wrists making her want to scream, but she doesn't respond.

"Answer me," he says, tightening his hold until she can't keep her eyes from watering.

"You answer me," she counters.

 _Addie, stop,_ and she hears it in Derek's voice – a warning, a defense, all at once, but when he takes another step closer, no distance between them at all … it seems like it's too late now.

"You know what? I think you behaved better before you got all dressed up."

She's confused for a moment, thinking of the costume they forced on her the previous night. But then his hands are at the waistband of her jeans and she realizes the meaning of his words.

..

He's alone in his office, scans on the lightboard, and it's ordinary. It's so ordinary.

Except nothing is ordinary and just breathing is a complex task with a beginning, a middle, and an end. The aneurysm is a blur – not the dilation itself, visible clearly on the scan, but its surroundings.

He can't focus.

He has to operate on Franklin Schaff, has promised to operate on Franklin Schaff, was hand selected to operate on Franklin Schaff.

Because of his focus.

It's his trademark, his skill set, and Addison loves it. At least she used to. Sometimes, lately, it's too much for her, that's what she says. _You're so focused on your work, you're missing out on other things._

Is that what happened here?

He missed out on something, something that could have alerted him to this danger?

He's the center of it. He's the reason his wife is handcuffed in her own kitchen, at the mercy of intruders with enough manpower and weapons that they don't stand a chance, even if they weren't trying to protect each other.

What did he miss?

He kicks himself. Again, and again. He grips a pen to keep his hand from shaking, taps it on the desk.

Almost no one knew about Franklin Schaff. That was the plan.

 _Focus, Derek._

To know enough to do this? To plan this?

 _Focus, Derek._

He still doesn't know what they want from him. Not specifically. But he knows enough to know it's not good.

Not good at all.

"Excuse me, doctor?"

He drops the pen, startled.

It's just the young man on the janitorial team who comes by to empty his wastebasket, that's all. Derek indicates the can with a brief nod.

And then the air next to him moves as the cleaner approaches. A simple displacement, but it raises the hairs on his arm.

Is it the same cleaner who came last night?

And the night before that?

Is he _ordinary?_ Or, despite his familiar green uniform, is he in fact a stranger?

Is he emptying the trash, or using his proximity to Derek to make sure he's maintaining his façade?

He has no answers, only questions, only a weak thanks when the cleaner finishes. His wave goodbye is almost jaunty.

The rest of the world has never seemed so strange, so menacing.

Not here at the hospital, which has always been _his_ place.

His second home.

And now his second home, and his first home, have both been invaded.

He focuses again.

Not on the scans, but on the silver frame on his desk.

Addison, on the beach. She framed it, she set it there when she decorated his office. _I know it's a cliché, I know that's what everyone frames, but you did say you wanted one of just me …._ He remembers her voice trailed off a little at the end. He did request exactly that. _I don't want to look at my own face when I'm working_ , he explained to her. He wanted to look at hers. She's holding a large sunhat mostly on her head but failing a bit and laughing, more than a bit. There's a golden glow around her, beachy and warm. They were at Lucy Vincent, one of the few times they went to Bizzy's Chilmark house. Addison preferred Nantucket to the Vineyard, presumably because the Vineyard reminded her of her parents, and the trip he snapped that photo she whispered, _it's the best time I've ever had here._ It was off season and they made love in the sand on a rough-woven Mexican blanket in shades of blue. Sand in her eyelashes, sun-warmed skin. The photograph is chaste and conservative; his memories are anything but.

 _I want to look at your face when I'm working._

He wants to look at her face now.

He needs to.

One last conversation with the team and he can leave the hospital, but their separation still aches.

He's gripping the frame in two hands now, hard enough to break, but it's strong.

She's strong too.

..

She's fighting him, adrenaline giving her strength if not aim.

Coloring her judgment red – she can't stop herself.

He stops her, though, on the floor, kneeling astride her to hold her in place, laughing down at her when she struggles. She closes her eyes, fear making her faint. She's utterly powerless.

Powerless and stupid.

 _Why didn't you shut up?_

He drags both arms over her head, clicking the handcuffs shut around the exposed pipe attached to the wall.

Her shirt rides up, her stomach muscles jump under his hands, and he laughs at her.

Each button on the placket seems to take forever, _he's enjoying this,_ and she kicks herself again and again for fighting him, for giving him a reason. She's trying to control her breathing, but it's harsh in her head. Inhale, skipping heartbeats like a frantic animal, exhale. Again.

Finally he's finished.

Her neck strains from the angle she needs to watch him, her breath strains in her throat. He just settles his hands over her hips and then, gripping both sides of the now open waistband, drags the jeans down her legs in one rough movement. Gooseflesh rises as soon as her skin is exposed.

The intruder tosses the jeans aside casually once he's shaken her feet free. She draws her bare legs up instinctually, away from him. If she makes herself small enough, can she disappear into the pipe? Into the wall?

 _Derek's not here._

He settles down in front of her and she tries to sit up, to gain some leverage, but it's too difficult the way she's chained.

 _No one's coming._

He watches her for a moment, then moves a little closer. Lights are buzzing in front of her eyes.

Her focus shifts from stopping whatever he has planned to praying its aftermath won't be left for Derek to see.

She can't help but think, as he pulls her legs down with no particular roughness, settling one arm across them so she's pinned in place – that she's let her husband down.

 _Derek, I'm sorry._

She doesn't say anything out loud, just forces one breath out after another.

"See, your manners are _much_ improved this way." One of his hands is on her hip now, a disturbing mimicry of a caress. "I knew it," he says, his tone almost soothing, and her stomach turns.

"Please don't," she whispers, finding her voice.

" _Please,_ huh? So you can be polite when it suits you." He rests both leather-clad hands on her thighs and pauses. "Do you think you can keep your mouth shut now?"

"Yes," she says immediately.

"Good." He pats her hip again and she forces bile down. "You haven't been a ten in a while now," he says, a laugh disturbingly present in his tone, "but you're not half-bad. And we all have to do things for the mission."

She doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't trust the air around her.

"What's going on in here?"

She never thought she'd be glad to see the intruder she thinks of as the taller one, but his arrival seems to make the New One pause.

"Costume change," the New One says. He stands, leaving her thankfully alone on the floor.

"Weren't you supposed to keep her quiet?"

"She's going to be quiet now." The New One smirks down at her. "Aren't you?"

She nods instead of speaking, and though they make no noise she's certain they're both laughing at her.

"Cheer up, sweetheart," the taller intruder says. "Your pretty husband is still breathing and so are you. How much more do you want?"

How much does she want?

She wants to breathe, yes.

She wants to live.

She wants her home back.

And then without preamble or grace, her stomach growls. Audibly.

"Hungry?" The New One looks down at her. She's hunched over her curled legs, any hope at dignity gone.

She doesn't answer.

The taller intruder elbows him. "You told her to be quiet. She's being quiet." Then he looks down at Addison. "There's no Thai delivery today," he says, but then he's taking a banana from the bowl of fruit Rosa keeps filled – it's always fresh and glossy, anything bruised disappears before it can be touched.

He peels it halfway and sticks it into her cuffed hands.

Eating it is easier than protesting, even if they're watching her in a way that makes her feel even more naked than she is.

And she's glad.

Because the sugar hits her bloodstream, hard and necessary.

Her head doesn't clear completely. She's still exhausted from terror and lack of any real sleep, muscles shaking, heart thumping.

But something in her is waking up.

Some reminder that her best weapons aren't physical. Not when men with guns, men with each other, stand feet away from her. Not when her fear feeds them.

 _Food for thought_ , that's what people say, and she finishes the whole banana. It's the sweetest thing she's ever eaten, because now she can think.

She can sit, her bare legs pulled up into her chest, outwardly docile under the intruders' gaze.

Quiet.

 _Your pretty husband is still breathing._

Derek is alive.

With that knowledge, with nutrients coursing through her blood, she comes alive too.

She's not in the corner of her kitchen, chained to a pipe, half-naked at the mercy of violent strangers.

She's in the OR, she's an intern again. Derek is next to her, she can feel the warmth of his skin through his lab coat and it's just not just the heat of him, it's their ferocious desire to learn. To be the best, to be the first.

 _Okay, people, what do we know?_ Their resident is barking at them, prepping them. _Come on. What do we know. Montgomery?_

What does she know, though?

 _You're so good, Addie,_ that's what Derek said to her that day, _you're so good on the spot._ Instinct. Derek was so good too. Nothing could penetrate his focus, his determination. The whole world disappeared when he worked. Everyone but her.

 _You're so good on the spot._

What did the intruder say? _There's no Thai delivery today._ She ordered Thai Monday night. It stands out because it came even faster than usual, she answered the door in a robe and the kid delivering the food blushed.

He was the same kid who always delivers.

Wasn't he?

 _Why Thai? Why did you say Thai?_

There are no leftovers in the refrigerator, Rosa's meticulous about 24-hour shelf life, _I know you're the doctors but I know this_ , that's what she would say.

There is something in her basement.

There is someone in her home.

A lot of someones.

And she's starting to suspect with a certainty that leaves her nauseated, the banana she was so grateful for rising again in her throat – that they didn't actually arrive last night.

* * *

 _ **To be continued. Faster this time, I really think. I hope you'll share your thoughts with me, because they're incredibly motivated. As always, thank you so much for reading.**_


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